Other Wurldly
by JoshBadWriter
Summary: Ashlar always dreamed of traveling the world, but there was a problem. He was a gargoyle, and one ton's worth of masonry decoration tend not to travel far. I decided to stop working on this after I found about about the story "The Last Hero", which completely destroys everything this story is based on. Oh well, its still a good read.


**Other Wurldly**

**Chapter 1**

A thick layer of darkness permeated Ankh-Morpork like a dead body in the River Ankh, which is to say not at all.

Ankh-Morpork is the city that never sleeps. Such a city that has developed an impressive reputation is also libel to develop a less sterling notoriety for its criminal activity. But such appalling affairs would not dare take place here, certainly not by masked men in hoods and dark clothing hoping to steal government secrets.

Which is precisely why a masked man wearing a hood and dark clothing crept through the streets of Al Khali. The capital city of Klatch, it's "the gateway to the mysterious continent of Klatch" or so the pleasant, albeit tasteless, sign in front of the town reads. Al Khali holds the governing body of Klatch, whatever loose amalgamation of tribes and people it may be at the given moment.

The hooded man crept through the darkness with the sly and cunning of a rat in a maze, stopping several times to ask for directions and grab a pint.

Finally, after the clock had long since struck midnight, he reached his destination: the capital building of Al Khali.

The building did not impress the master thief who broke in that night, nor the masked man currently holding our attention. It was a plain brown building with tear drop shaped windows and blue swatches of paint encircling them. A large white dome dominated the structure, sitting atop a spiral tower in the center. Encircling the dome were small turrets with crosses cut out of the tops, perfect for both firing arrows and confusing foreigners about the state religion.

On top of the dome stood a long golden rod thrusting into the sky so much so that the gods had already filed several complaints with the town council.

Guards patrolled the outer perimeter, but a bright light shining through one of the palaces ground floor windows guided the masked man to his destination. Elaborately, and quite needlessly sliding behind a guard, the man pushed open the window and climbed inside.

"Good heavens you scared the dickens out of me," said a small man sitting behind a desk in the office.

"The wot?" asked the hooded man.

"Nevermind you prat, you're late."

"So's I got lost a'few times, no big deal. Do you have it?"

The small man, still sitting comfortably behind his desk, slid open a comically squeaky draw and reached inside, pulling out a large scroll consisting of blue paper and held tight with golden string. He tossed it across the room, and watched as it landed neatly in the hooded man's arms.

"The city of Ankh-Morpork thanks you for your business," the hooded man said with a bow.

"Yeah, well maybe next time the city shouldn't announce itself to the world."

The masked man nodded in response, and jumped out the window, noting the use "next time" by the man with a funny accent.

It's easy to mistake a masked, hooded man wandering the streets at night for a thief or otherwise up-to-no-good criminal. However, Fodder, as he was come to known by his compatriots, was in fact an Ankh-Morporkian spy, who merely dallied in thievery on the side.

He is not as unintelligent as he leads many to believe. "To do that there spying you need to force others to underestimate you," he would tell new recruits, who stared in morbid fascination at the drunken man they were told was the best spy in the city.

So it came as no surprise to Fodder when he noticed another hooded figure had been follwing him.

Continuing his leisurely pace, Fodder emerged in The Soak, the biggest bazaar in the city. Despite the ungodly hour, the crowded marketplace was bathed in light by lanterns and magic beams dancing between a wizards hands. Ankh-Morpork was not the only city that never sleeps.

The figure following was far too conspicuous, walking close to lanterns and letting his sandals clop down the cobblestone street.

At first, Fodder thought it would be an easily lost rookie. But as he weaved in and out of market stalls selling "witch brooms" held up with string and snake charming kits complete with hand puppet reptile, the tail remained firmly on his rear. He thought back to his own rule, and realized the shrouded follower must have been a more seasoned spy. Letting yourself be seen by the person you're following often makes them cocky, forcing them into a mistake.

"I'm not some cocky new guy," Fodder turned his head to say, stopping for a split second to contemplate the hypocrisy. It was during this stop that he realized the man following him was no longer there, replaced by an old man trying to sell someone sock puppet oil.

He turned around slowly, inching himself forward and saw what he was expecting to see. "Bloody hell," he mumbled, hoping his comedy act would buy him a few precious seconds.

FUNNY YOU SHOULD SAY THAT, said yet another hooded figure, IT SEEMS QUITE BLOODY INDEED.

Fodder stood up, checked himself, and looked down. There, he saw the man that had been following him pull his hand out of someone's pocket with a blue scroll before running off into the crowd. Upon further inspection, he realized that someone had been himself, or rather his former self.

A large hole appeared in his chest, with red jam oozing out onto the dusty ground beneath. Cold terror started to overtake Fodder, as the shocking realization crept over him.

"That booth over there is selling pints for half off."

DON'T BOTHER, THE STUFF IS NO GOOD TO BEGIN WITH, said Death.

"A damn shame that is."

**Chapter 2**

The skyline of Ankh-Morpork was punctured with silhouettes of oddly shaped buildings, and ancient decorative ornaments that no one really understood. Trying to decorate the city of Ankh was much akin to decorating an outhouse, and many of the outlandish sculptures, rods, and lattice work were quite scary in the dead of night.

One of these kinds of intended decorations are the gargoyles.

Originally intended to scare off invading army's, the creators of these stone creatures quickly realized the low probably of an armed barbarian being scared of a piece of granite. Being unable to destroy their own creation, and sensing the opportunity at a quick buck, the sculptors managed to pass them off as high-class decorations to architects looking for an extra edge over the competition.

It didn't take long for the gargoyles to quickly spread across the low-class buildings of Ankh-Morpork.

But what separates these gargoyles from the average flowery metal thing, or the bright and vibrant paintjob of a child's nightmares is the fact that gargoyles are very truly living piecs of art.

Sparked to life by the magic irritating from Unseen University, or some kind of joke by the gods, no one really knows how gargoyles came to be alive. What is known of these creatures is that they are very good at staying in place for long hours, sometimes years at a time without ever moving, and staring at things.

"Fat's fwhat bein' a gar-oyle if all abouf!" proclaimed Clark's Gable. Clark's Gable was one of the top gargoyles of the city, acclaimed for his stationary abilities and watchful nature. Granted, this great honor was bestowed upon him by the gutter running through the back of his skull and coming out of his mouth, he would privately admit, but it was one he relished regardless.

"But why does it have to be a certain way?" replied Ashlar.

"Our anfestors nefer asfed those kinfs of questions and they got of wif it just fine," he replied.

Gargoyles did not in fact have ancestors, reproducing through chisel and hammer rather than screw and nail. Neither do they have true Uncles, though Ashlar always looked up to Clark's Gable as a sort of mentor he never had at home.

"You just don't understand. You want to sit here and revel in your traditions and your... your old ways," Ashlar motined his hands thinking they would aid him, "and you don't care what the new generation wants."

"I'm finished wif thif confersation."

"You aided in murder investigation once, you of all people should know the thrill of something like that."

"A human waf murfered in front of me."

"You know what I mean," groaned an exasperated Ashlar.

Having experienced this conversation several times a year, which was near record for him, Clark's Gable didn't respond. This usually elicited a groan from Ashlar, who would give up and fly home, leaving Gable alone to shake his head, metaphorically of course.

Another mystery of the gargoyles was how massive, one ton blocks of granite and concrete could fly at all. The popular theory was that it wasn't any different than how massive ten ton wooden ships could float in the water: dark magic that should never be questioned.

Ashlar is one of the "new breed" of gargoyles. This new generation was capable of using their wings to fly, rather than use them as fly swatters. They also had fully functioning mouths that could be used to easily speak to human's and devour unlucky or slow pigeons, a delicacy to this new breed, but not one hated by the old folks.

"Mom, he completely ignored me."

"That's nice dear."

"Now you're doing it too."

"Okay dear."

"Pudding donkey chicken."

"That's lovely dear."

Ashlar's mother, Truss, was a young two hundred year old gargoyle, and met every criterion for "firmly chiseled". Her sculptor had the broken chisel to prove it. That sculptor, a frail old zombie by the name of Edmond Dkafg, was the father that was never there for Ashlar, and that didn't bother him in the slightest.

Gargoyles, however much they question their existence or path in life, are always content with whatever their parental status in life happens to be. Gargoyles don't fall in love with one another, primarily because they never spend much time with other gargoyles to have the chance. The gargoyles that occupy the same buildings are considered family, and despite being old fashioned, inter-family relationships didn't happen because gargoyles didn't talk to each other much. Talking meant less time staring at things, and less time staring at things mean breaking tradition.

As far as Truss was concerned, tradition was but a fading memory having long sense been thrown away by her son.

"Come on, mom."

Truss took a deep sigh, before shifting from her position of the eternal thinker. "I'm sorry, honey, but all this talk of traveling the world gets exhausting after a while. Tell you what, some pigeons flew by not too long ago and I think they landed on that chicken coop over there. Why don't you be a dear and fetch some for dinner?"

"Mom, I told you, it's a semaphore tower, not a chicken coop."

"That's nice, dear," Ashlar just made out as he flew off to the other side of the roof.

As he drew nearer to the edge of the roof, he saw three pure white pigeons. A fine meal, Ashlar regarded as he barreled towards them.

Most people assume pigeons are unintelligent, but if anyone ever got to know them they would realize they're a lot like Fodder. Not in the sense that they're dead corpse is being sold half way across the Disc for sixpence, but that they aren't as stupid as they look. So when three pure white pigeons saw a half ton of concrete rushing towards them at alarming speed, their first action was not to empty their bowels on someone's head, but to fly off as fast as they could. It was only after they escaped Ashlar's death spiral that they celebrated by reliving themselves on someone's dome.

But this mattered little to Ashlar, as his real target was the sign of the building.

He stood atop the Bank of Ankh-Morpork sign in fascination of the city that lie ahead of him. He could feel the wind in his ridges, so much so that it muted out the hateful cries of the gargoyles stationed at the front of the bank, telling him to "fnow yar plaff." These gargoyles were not of the new generation.

Ashlar gazed upon the dimly lit plaza before him, still bustling with people. "Sorry mom, dinner's going to be a little late." He shouted over his shoulder, before diving off the ledge of the bank.

In his mind, Ashlar saw himself gracefully dive, rocketing towards the ground before swinging up at the last possible moment. However, the planned swan dive morphed into a tumble in which Ashlar fought for control of wings, before crashing headfirst onto the steps below.

The grand, marble steps of the bank were polished daily on orders of the eccentric Chairman of the Bank. The man on the lowest of the ladder at the bank, having just completely the laborious task of waxing on and off the steps, came to appreciate yet another mystery of the gargoyles: how could a slab of concrete leave that big a hole in marble and yet walk away without a single scratch. It was also at this point the man came to appreciate the pursuit of higher education.

Struggling to stay aloft, Ashlar rubbed his head. He was worried he might have a crack, but that thought quickly escaped his mind as he looked down at the city below him.

"Whoa," he mumbled under his breath.

Ashlar, being a gargoyle, didn't get out much. But when he did, he was always electrified by what he saw.

On this particular night the scene was a man trying to fix a broken wheel on his wagon. Not something too many people would audibly gasp over, Ashlar knew, but most people don't get to fly around the city at night after a lengthy game of "the motionless game", a modified version of "the quiet game".

A multitude of questions flew through his head without an answer in sight. Why is he using that dwarf bread to hold up the cart? Where did the dwarf bread come from? Did he buy it? Why would anyone willingly buy dwarf bread? Was it purchased solely on its ability to hold up carts while the wheel was being changed?

He was about to swing down and give a lending hand, when something else caught his attention. In the darkness, Ashlar could just make out a strange figure hiding in an alley. The strange figured looked like he was holding something in his arm. A box, perhaps?

The gargoyle's attention got the better of him, and he decided to check it out. He swooped down, just as he had done at the bank, and once again he went plummeting to the Disc without being able to stop himself.

Luckily his fall was broken by several garbage cans, and he had the chance for a magnificent feast for dinner with all the rotten food he pulled off himself.

The strange figure, meanwhile, ran in terror down the alley, before coming being stopped by a dead end. Ashlar got up, rubbing his head, and looked at the man.

He was disappointed. Expecting a shifty character, or even a seamstress, Ashlar saw what was in fact just a regular man holding a box.

Ashlar was fifty years old, a teenager in gargoyle years, and was like many young boys his age, regardless of species. He was socially awkward around people, unable to use that freshly evolved mouth of his to talk, and always willing to flee at the first sign or trouble, or rather, the first sign of being caught.

So when he realized such a precarious situation was rife with the possibility of getting caught, Ashlar's first thought was to get out of that alley as fast as possible. But when the man suddenly called out to him, the other teenage problem struck with dire consequences. The perpetual immovable object met the clichéd unstoppable force, and something had to give.

Frozen by fear, Ashlar stood in place, unmoving, almost as if he were a statue.

"Hey, wh... what's a gargoyle doing down here? Did you fall from your pedestal or something?" the man asked.

I have to get the hell out of here, Ashlar thought to himself.

"Are you one of those old ones that don't talk?" the man asked, drawing slowly closer.

What do I say to him, sorry? Technically I didn't do anything to him, I just knocked these trashcans over. But their owners aren't here so I should just leave.

"Hey, um, I don't suppose I can ask for some help?"

Oh no, this is bad, he's going to ask me to sell slab or kidnap some little girl's puppy. I need to leave.

"It's nothing serious or anything. I just want you to stand here and hold this box for me while I go in there." The man pointing to a building on the opposite side of the street.

Hold a box? Oh no, there isn't a decapitated head in there, is there? No, he would have said something like "don't look in this box" or something.

"And whatever you do, just don't look inside. Okay?"

I need to leave right now.

"What do you say? Well, you're not going to say anything since you don't talk. How about I-"

"No-thank-you-I-have-to-get-going-I'm-sorry-goodbye," Ashlar blurted out in one breath.

"I'll get you twenty pigeon's," the man shouted.

"Twenty?" Ashlar mumbled under his breath.

Standing in a pitch black alley, holding a wooden box full of some unspeakable evil, waiting for twenty pigeon's he wasn't even sure he'd get. This was the situation Ashlar found himself in.

The strange man, calling himself Bizz, told him he'd be out in five minutes after a meeting with some business partners.

Having perched himself on a rusty fire escape, Ashlar noted thirty minutes had passed since he last saw the man.

Thinking he'd been set up, and being a curious teenager, he decided to throw caution to the wind and open the box. Holding the box as far away from himself as he could with one hand, he used one of his claws in the other to slowly open the box and peak inside. Not being able to see anything in the darkness, he opened the box all the way. Still not being able to see inside, he leaned in to get a closer look.

This was when he lost his balance and dropped the box as he tumbled off the fire escape. He could practically hear the live studio audience laughingly shout "that's our Ashlar" as he climbed out of the bundle of trashcans he fell in earlier.

Once again he was ready to fly off and escape the consequences, when he noticed the contents of the box fell onto the ground. The temptation was too great, and he drew closer to examine it.

It was a large tube, constructed out of metal and painted white. The top of the tube came together in a cone that was painted black, but it was the bottom that caught Ashlar's interest. It looked like a tin washbin turned over, only smaller and with a hole in the bottom.

He picked the tube up and inspected it, looking down the hole in the bottom without being able to see anything. He set it down vertically and looked in the box again. There he saw a long pole with an arm coming off the top. Putting two and two together, he set the tube beside the pole, and attached the top of the cone to the arm.

Then, he pulled out the final item in the box. A black box with a metal rod sticking out, and a big red button in the middle.

Once again successfully figuring out the obvious, Ashlar realized the worst thing he could do was to push the button. He gingerly laid the box on a trashcan lid behind him, and went about putting the rest of it carefully in the wooden box.

But it was too late, as Bizz walked down the alley with his hands on his hips.

"What are you doing, gargoyle? I specifically told you not to open the box."

"Uh, I'm-sorry-I-didn't-mean-to-really-I-just-thought-I'd-have-a-little-peak-let-me-fix-it." Not fully understanding what the strange gargoyle said, Bizz picked up the box with the big red button.

"Do you have any idea what would have happened if you pushed this button?" Bizz said pointing at the button, intending to illustrate the sheer magnitude. Instead, he demonstrated firsthand what it did, accidently pressing the button himself.

The tube rocketed out of Ashlar's hands and shot straight up into the sky, leaving a bright light and a trail of thick smoke behind as it did so. Bizz's head shot straight up, even quicker than the rocket itself.

"You know, maybe twenty pigeon's is a bit steep. I'll, uh, I'll being going now."

Bizz lowered his eyes to meet Ashlar's scared gaze.

"You're not going anywhere. This is your fault," he said pointing his hand. Having remembered the last time he pointed, he quickly retracted his hand. Ashlar gave him a strange looked, and he tried to pass it off by straightening his jacket to no avail. "That rocket cost me a lot of blood and money. You're going to help me make another one."

"I'm sorry, but I have to get back-"

"If you don't I'll be calling the Watch on you."

Having heard tales of the Watch, the last thing Ashlar wanted was to be hunted down by their borderline psychotic commander. He was also worried they'd take Bizz's word over his own, knowing a gargoyle wasn't always seen as the most equal create in Ankh-Morpork.

"Okay, okay, calm down. Why don't you just go to Unseen University?"

Bizz gave Ashlar a quizzical look. "Why would I do that?"

"That thing was obviously magic of some kind."

"No, it wasn't. It was the result of good ol' fashion hard work. Now before you go running your mouth trying to talk your way out of this, how about you listen to the plan?" Ashlar remained glued to the ground as he listened to Bizz explain the situation. "That thing you let... me shoot off was supposed to be a test device for certain friends of mine."

"Friends?"

"Don't interrupt me. These friends, who will remained unnamed, were very much interested in that device. So much so they invested several thousand pounds into its development."

"I don't like were this is going."

"Me neither. Because these are the kinds of friends that'd push you down a flight of stairs just for a bit of a laugh." Ashlar thought Bizz sounded like he was speaking from experience. "Now we have twenty four hours to try and build another one of those, and fix whatever problem it was having."

"What problem?" Ashlar asked.

Almost on cue, the metal tube cam plummeting back to the Disc, its high pitched whistling the only warning of its failed date with gravity, and crashed into those trashcans behind Bizz. They were having quite the night those trashcans were.

"That problem."

"I hate to sound rude, but my momma said that all things that go up are a smack to the face of the god's and will be smited back down to the Disc." Bizz gave him a blanks stare. "My mom said that, not me. Point is... I'm pretty sure that's supposed to happen."

"You think you know everything then tell me, why would someone invest several thousands of pounds on something that shoots straight up and then comes back down?"

"Drugs."

Bizz raised a single finger, but was unable to think of a reply and instead stood there with his mouth hanging open.

"Hey, if this is about drugs then I'm not going to help anyway."

"No you nitwit, this isn't about drugs," Bizz raised his finger to the sky, "it's about going to space!"

Very few people on the Disc ever dreamed of going to space. Indeed, very few people on the Disc even knew about the conceptual idea of a "space". The ones who didn't believe (or understand) in space thought it was nothing more than the vague area where Anoia, the goddess of Things That Stick in Drawers, operates.

But among those who did know about space yearned to one day take a trip amongst the stars, and somehow find a way to squeaze every coin possible out of the endeavor.

Among those who dreamed of touring the depths of the universe was Bergholt Stuttley Johnson, or Bloody Stupid Johnson as many came to know him, or perhaps even "I'd Like To See You Do Better With Chicken Feed And A Rake" Johnson. But for what he lacked in conventional wisdom, Johnson more than made up for in unconventional stupidity.

Ashlar couldn't help but listen with rapt attention to Bizz tell the story of the BSJ space rocket.

After three failed attempts that ultimately didn't do anything, Johnson thought about giving up for the first time and turning his attention back to what would become the Ankh Mail Sorter. But he gave it one last attempt, absolutely sure that this time it would be more successful in that it would at least get off the ground.

Johnson set the miniature rocket down on its side (this is Bloody Stupid Johnson after all) and ran as far as he could before pressing the launch button.

Where the previous rockets did nothing, this one went far beyond. It blew up in a massive fireball. The explosion was so large in size it left a crater, which eventually made for an excellent pond at the centerpiece of one of Johnson's gardens.

After this failure, Johnson gave up on the rocket and instead turned his attention to his spectacular cooking career. But, Bizz explained, he left behind schematics that proved useful to his own design.

"Deciphering one of Johnson's schematics is enough for a medal, if you ask me, but that's beside the point."

"Why did you design your rocket after one that blew up?" It was a fair question, Bizz admitted, but one he wasn't going to field yet again.

"Don't you worry about that now. We need to hurry and build this second rocket for my financers, you see."

Ashlar felt the collar tightening around his neck. "Financers?" he asked in a high pitch squeal.

"I don't have the resources to fund the project myself. That rocket you... made me destroy was going to be a demonstration, used to prove to my backers that I knew what I was doing."

"Backers?" Bizz could start to see the concrete man before him shutter.

"Yes, backers, and if this new rocket isn't done in twenty-four hours they'll pack up and move on to... other projects." Ashlar was about to say something about Bizz's reluctant pause, but he was cut off. "As long as we can get the materials I should be able to put the device together in time."

The sound of Bizz's voice started to fade from Ashlar, and he drifted off somewhere in his mind. This is finally it, he thought, my chance to finally explore the world. Or space anyway, but it doesn't really matter. I'll be making history in more ways than one. Ashlar started to stroke his non-existent beard for effect, and recoiled in pain as he felt a crack along his cheek.

"Are you even listening?" Bizz asked.

"Yeah."

"What did I just say?"

"Are you listening to me."

"Before that!" Bizz was starting to get angry, and Ashlar thought it best not to make things worse.

"I don't know, I wasn't listening."

To Ashlar's amazement, this seemed to work. Bizz rubbed his face, making him look like a sound hound, and took a deep breath. "I need you, that's you," he pointed his finger, "to go and find some cow manure. You know what that is, right? You got that?"

"You want me to do what?" Ashlar felt the situation called for a bit of dramatic flair, so he screamed as loud as he could.

"Calm down, I'm not asking you to scoop it up with your bare hands. Ever since Johnson realized you can use it to fertilize plants people have continued to stay away from the stuff. But if you go to a gardening stall and ask for a bag of it I don't think they'll complain."

"I was hoping you'd explain what you needed it for somewhere in that drawn out explanation."

"It's the fuel that makes it take off. Johnson realized its... flammable capabilities but never thought to use less of the stuff in his design."

"Well what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go have a chat with my financers and see if I can delay the planned launch."

"You don't have faith in your new assistant."

"I just met you, and the first thing you did was open the box that I specifically told you not to open."

"I just met you and the first thing you did was ask me to stand in a dark alley and hold a box that I shouldn't open. What would you have done in that situation?"

Bizz thought about this for a moment. "Point taken, just meet me back here in say, half an hour."

Flying above the streets of The Shades and observing the shops, Ashlar began to rethink his lifelong dream of wanting to see the world. It wasn't the pale and ashen faced people of The Shades, or even the glum and dark environment that put him off.

It was everything about The Shades.

The whole area left him feeling as if he were covered in dirt and grime, despite flying fifty feet above. Still, it was on Bizz's instructions to find a cheap bag of manure there, "where better to find cow manure than the black hole upon which it was built" he said.

Eventually Ashlar stumbled across a small stall that looked to have some kind of plants, though the black oil covering them threw him off at first.

Despite having dreams and aspirations in life beyond staring at objects, Ashlar was still a gargoyle. He hated being on the ground for too long, and he was just thinking that the time spent with Bizz used up his allotted "down there" time. He was going to have to be quick about this.

He landed in quiet area, taking extra care to not crash into any unsuspecting trashcans this time, and walked in the opposite direction towards the stall.

Upon getting closer he saw the sign: "The Pearwood Forest - You won't get stumped with us!" A fat man was sitting at the stall, with his feet propped up on the desk and reading a copy of the now previous days' Ankh-Morpork Times.

Ashlar couldn't help but notice all the eyes staring at him, no doubt wondering why a gargoyle had such a massive crack on its cheek.

When he finally got to the stall, the man behind the desk looked over the paper without batting an eye. "Can I help you?" he asked in a heavy Klatch accent.

"Um, yes, I, um, I was wondering if you had any, um, any..."

"Well go ahead and spit it out then, lad. I haven't got all day."

"Sorry, uh, I was wondering if you had any cow manure." Ashlar's voice choice the final two words to reenact the crescendo of the Chicken Lake opera.

"Come again?" The man heard full well what Ashlar was saying, it was just one of those moments that you had to reaffirm your situation in life and double check everything was still the way it was when you woke up in the morning.

"I need cow manure, please. Bloody Stupid Johnson used to use it in his gardens so I figured I'd do the same."

The stall owner needed to take a second to review the situation. "You know what, why don't you just get out of here, eh? Go back to where you come from, and I won't even mug ya. Innit that sound good?" The man went back to reading his paper without waiting for a reply.

Ashlar decided it would be best to leave, so he took off, right in front of the stall.

He started to think about what to do next, or more likely, how to avoid ever being caught by Bizz because he sure wasn't going to go back to him, when he saw a horse stall. Horses are close enough to cows, he thought to himself as he swooped down.

The horse stalls were empty, save for horses. Ashlar, moving with commendable stealth for an eight feet high piece of masonry, entered through the back door. From the front, he could see light from the horses' owner's house pouring through the loose boards.

In the darkness, Ashlar searched around for a bag or bucket. Eventually he settled on a wooden box attached to the front of a door leading to the stall used to feed the horses.

Next, he opened each of the stalls one by one, and scooped up whatever he could. It was around this point he realized he couldn't ask himself "what am I doing with my life" enough.

It was the finally stall where he was procuring the needed ingredient, when Ashlar lost control of the now heavy box. It slid out of his hands and hit one of the horses rear leg. The horse, caught off guard, reared to life and started thrashing and neighing loudly.

"Oi, who be out thar in ma horse shed?" someone yelled from outside.

Ashlar quickly grabbed the wooden box and ran out of the stall, just as someone ran in. It was an old fat man, not too different from the fat man operating the gardening stall. This was still The Shades after all, where everyone generally looked the same for one reason or another.

"Um, I can I borrow a cup of horse dung?" Ashlar asked, forcing a smile.

The man, briefly caught off guard by the gargoyle, quickly recovered and pulled out a dagger. "I ain't know what ya doin' 'ere lad, but I think you'd best leave."

"Right." In all the excitement, Ashlar forgot that a dagger can't do much to a half ton of cement.

"And leave that there box."

"Right. I mean no, I need this."

"Then I suggest you best start runnin'." The man didn't wait for a reply, and lept at Ashlar.

Ignoring all common sense, Ashlar ran past the man, narrowly dodging out of his way, causing the man to ram his face into the rear end of the still angry horse. He continued running out into the open, where he saw an equally fat woman, quickly approaching seventy, standing in a white night gown.

"Harrold, what are ya doin' wit that there box?" she asked in a pitch far lower than any man could achieve. "Harrold?"

Ashlar finally took flight, box in hand, and soared away as fast as he could. Holding the box as far in front of him as his stubby arms would allow, he took a deep breath, and quickly started coughing due to the fumes.

"Because only an idiot would dare trust a random passerby with such technology!" The angry man's foreign accent bounced off the walls, echoing in Bizz's ears.

"Technically he was flying by."

"Flying?"

"Yeah. He crashed in some trashcans. Twice."

The angry man with a foreign accent was not pleased with this response. He started grumbling, which evolved into yelling. Finally, he took a seat at the table and poured himself a glass of water, before slamming the glass on the floor.

"What Matek is trying to say," said a second man, "is that your decision to hand the rocket off to... someone you could not fully trust was a poor decision."

"What I'm trying to say is this guy is a fu-"

"Now, now, Matek. Why don't you go in the other room and cool down for a second."

Matek, becoming even more furious at being shot down, sighed. "Yes, Abir." He got up out of the chair and walked into the other room, slamming the door behind him.

"That was very childish of my colleague, for that I apologize."

"Look, I'm sure you're both very angry at me, and in all likelihood rightfully so."

"All likelihood?"

"Okay, definitely rightfully so. But it's okay, the guy who lost the rocket is helping me find the parts I need to build a second prototype. I'll have it done in time for the demonstration for sure."

"If that is the case, then why did you bother coming here and telling us this at all? You could have easily went behind our backs and built a second one without either of us being the wiser. I doubt it was because you were acting on your noble instincts."

"Well, you see, you're right. I'm not exactly sure if I can have it done in time so I was going to ask for another day or two."

"I see." Abir put his finger to his lips and closed his eyes, nodding his head as he made strange grunting noises. Bizz had been around Abir long enough to know that this meant he was not actually thinking, just giving the impression of thinking long and hard about something.

"That's a no, then?" he ventured.

"We have delayed this test four times now, and- let me finish, if you will- and me and Mr. Matek believe that is four times too many. Unfortunately, after yesterday's attempted robbery at our government building and Matek… firing one of our employee's, we are no longer prepared to wait on your pet project, Mr. Aldrich."

"Oh, well, that's okay, I can totally get it done in time."

"I don't think you understand, sir. What I meant to say, is that we will not take part in this demonstration of yours, whenever you complete it."

"Oh, I get it. You'll be sending someone else to watch the demonstration. That's fine by me."

"Look you imbecile, we are not funding you now or ever for you manure powered rocket. We're turning our attention elsewhere and I suggest you do the same. Is that clear enough for you, or would you prefer I send a clacks out across the Disc?"

"Well that'd be a bit drastic don't you think?"

Abir squinted and twisted his head to the side. Bizz thought he was about to say something, when Matek came bursting in through the door, holding something in his hand.

"Boss, we need to go. The Watch is here."

"Are here, you mean?" Bizz offered.

Abir reached in his white robe and pulled out what looked to be a metal sphere with a cord on it. He pulled the cord and threw it on the ground. It instantly split open, and released a green gas that smelled strongly of mint. Matek, now pulling the cord on his sphere, threw his on the ground and grabbed Abir. Together, they ran out the window and clunked down the back fire escape.

The sphere Matek threw was a smoke bomb, a fact that became abundantly clear to Bizz as it rolled on the ground and stopped at his feet just before going off, spewing black smoke in his eyes. The last thing he remembered before blacking out was hearing the door bang open with the force of the gods, and a man grabbing him and lifting him high in the air.

"Well is he alright then?"

"I believe he's unconscious, sir. I can try slapping his face really hard."

"That won't be necessary, captain."

Someone started coughing near Bizz, it sounded like a woman. "All that smoke in there," she coughed out, "they didn't even need the mint bomb. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was Klatchian coffee."

Bizz slowly opened his eyes and tried to take a deep breath. He was stymied by the smoke still present around him, and let out a long wheeze. He rolled over on all fours and started coughing violently.

"Give him a hand, captain."

"Yessir!" The captain walked over and slapped his hand down on Bizz's back with the ferocity of one of the gods. Bizz let out one, long cough before rolling over on his side and catching his breath.

"Hello," he panted, "how can this fine citizen of Ankh-Morpork help his beloved Watch?"

"Sorry, the only bribes we take are monetary in nature," said Commander Vimes, now standing over him.

"Well I appreciate the help, but I have to get back to my innocent-not-doing-anything-wrong-life, toodles." Bizz rose to his feet, and still woozy, tried to walk off at a brisk pace. Instead, he was stopped by Angua slapping a pair of handcuffs on him.

"You're coming with us back to the station," she said.

"What? Why, what have I done?"

"Beats me," said Vimes.

"You've broken the No-Shady-Deals-with-Foreigners Law," said Captain Carrot.

"I admit I'm not well versed on this city's many laws, but you've really stumped me on this one."

"It was administer yesterday by Lord Vetinari himself. But if you need to be caught up on all the laws of Ankh-Morpork I have an old book that can help you with that. It's always good for our citizens to be well versed on the rules and regulations."

"Captain, he's being brought in for questioning, not torture." Vimes turned his attention back to Bizz. "How about we forgot that load of bullocks and focus on why those beasts threw a smoke bomb in the first place?"

"Beasts that dared not to be born in the great, sovereign state of Ankh-Morpork, sir," added Captain Angua.

"Of course, Captain, where are my manners?" Again he turned back to Bizz. "Now, would you kindly answer my question?"

"I don't know. We were just discussing a prototype I was building for them. They were going to give me funding for the project if it went well."

"These foreigners wouldn't -right Captain- these foreigners who had the audacity to not be born in Ankh-Morpork wouldn't happen to be Klatchian by any chance, would they?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Right then. Carrot, load him in the carriage and bring him back to the station. Me and Captain Angua are going to clean up here. Make sure you don't bore him to death with the Dwarfian laws or whatever before he gets there."

"No one could be bored with Dwarfian laws, sir. Why, who could forget Article 1, Section 1 that states-"

"Alright, Captain. Just get moving."

"Yessir!" Carrot grabbed Bizz by the handcuffs and led him into the back of the waiting carriage, and climbed in after him. After closing the door, the carriage sped off down the cobbled street.

"You wouldn't by any chance want to hear about Article 1, Section 1, would you?"

"Can't say I do," Bizz moaned, looking out the window of the speeding carriage.

Ashlar landed in the still dark alley with the manure. He saw a dark figure in the back, leaning against the wall.

"Hey, um, I ran into some trouble with the cows. I hope horse... kind will work too."

"So," said the dark figure, "you're the one that scared that old man half to death. All for some kinda box, right?" The figured removed itself from the wall and took a step towards Ashlar. For the first time, he realized the one figure was actually two, or even one and a half. "What's in the box?"

"Sarge, ain't you read the report? It said-"

"I don't have time for reports, Corporal. When you're busy chasing fugitives like this you don't have time for big fancy words trying to distract you."

"But-"

"What's in the box, Mr. Gargoyle?"

The figure emerged from the shadow, revealing a middle aged fat man. Ashlar at first thought he had stolen Watch armor and was wearing it, but he recalled stories about just such a man actually working for the watch.

"It's, uh, horse... droppings, sir." The half man emerged from the shadows after him, revealing a sub-human creature, and Ashlar thought that was being generous.

"You see, Corporal Nobbs, it's this kind of villainy that needs to be removed from the streets. Trying to pull one over on the Watch, despicable that is."

"But Fred, the man who owned the horses says it was just horse droppings, and that he was glad someone took it off his hands when he realized what was stolen."

Fred Colon turned to Nobbs and gave him a deathly stare, through the roles and wrinkles. "That old man probably just couldn't see in the dark without his glasses on. Said it was a gargoyle that robbed him."

"But he is a gargoyle." Nobbs turned to Ashlar. "You are a gargoyle, ain't ya?"

"Yes."

"Nobby, that's not the point. There's no way someone with a fresh pair of eyes like you and me wouldn't recognize this gentleman as a gargoyle. But that old man, what made him think a gargoyle would rob him? Gargoyles sit on top of towers and look at things, not steal boxes full of Om knows what. See what I'm gettin' at here?"

Nobbs stroked the grey stuff hanging off his face and smiled, nodding his head. "Yeah, Sarge, I get it. There's no way that's a gargoyle, he must be wearing a mask."

"No, Nobby," Colon smacked his face. "Let me see what's in that box." Ashlar set the box on one of the trashcans he noticed was now bent, and took a step back. He watched as Colon grabbed the lid, and quickly lifted it up.

"Well, it would have been useless anyway, kid," assured Bizz, lying his head against the bars of the cell.

"I should have never stopped to help you," said Ashlar.

"No, you shouldn't have."

Captain Angua walked up to the cell door and pointed at Bizz and Ashlar. "Come with me," she said in an authoritative voice.

Ashlar and Bizz, still in chains, got up and walked through the door. "I feel like I'm missing a chance to say 'do you want to ride my rocket.'"

"I feel like I'm missing the chance to tear your spleen out," she responded.

She led them to an awaiting carriage outside the Watch headquarters and loaded them into the back, without getting on herself. The carriage was completely empty, save for the driver, who sported a face that even the most traditional gargoyle would have trouble looking at for long.

"Good luck with the space rocket!" shouted Carrot as the wagon pulled away from the headquarters.

"Thank you," Bizz shouted. "I don't like this. Something's not right," he turned to Ashlar.

"Yeah, I've been arrested and now I'm being hauled off to the guillotine because of you." Ashlar added extra poisonous bite to 'you'.

"Well to be fair, you didn't have to do anything. You could have just flown off and not bothered. You said yourself I was acting awfully shady when I first flagged you down."

"Whatever."

"Ah, the universal sign of unwilling acknowledgement. Let me give you a piece of advice, next time someone asks you for help, don't bother. You'll only end up in a jail cell, or worse."

Ashlar silently continued looking out the window, watching the Watch headquarters shrink in the background. He could break the chains around his wrist, fly straight up through the thin wooden roof of the carriage, and he knew it. But he didn't do it. Instead, he leaned his head against the back wall, and closed his eyes, tired of watching the Watch.

**Chapter 3**

The two now found themselves in an office, staring at a clock. Something about it wasn't quite right. They couldn't shake the feeling that it was accurate, yet wrong at the same time. Bizz shrugged his shoulders and sat down in one of the chairs, noticing the deep hole's someone left in the opposite wall, right outside the door.

"Why'd they take us to the palace?" Ashlar asked.

"Don't know."

"You don't think we'll meet Vetinari?"

"I'm pretty sure it's already been spelled out for us."

Ashlar nodded his head and returned his attention to the clock. It wasn't often he got to go inside a fancy place, let alone the palace, let alone any indoor venture at all. Most of Ashlar's fifty years, a young age for a gargoyle, were spent outdoors, specifically about the bank.

The first time he'd ever gone indoors was at the age of forty.

He was beginning to question his place in life, and wondering why he had to just sit there and stare at people going in and out of the bank. Many of them looked like they were especially worried about something.

His mother told him to go fetch some pigeon's for dinner, an effective tactic she used to get a moment of silence from his constant nagging. Instead, Ashlar took the opportunity to wonder around the bank, going so far as to step inside.

The bank was a loud, and strange place. It was bustling with people who were moving. People who were talking. People who were yelling at one another about large sums of money that no longer seemed to be where they left it. People dumping dirty socks full of change onto counters.

People who were living their lives, not standing around in one spot all day.

People who had also sudden gone quiet at the sight of him, and people who held big nightsticks looking at each other with the universal look of "I'm not racist, but do we serve them here?"

At the sound of a doorknob turning, Bizz shot up out of his seat. "Alright kid, get ready for... practically anything, frankly."

A small man emerged from behind the door, blocking the view with his body and shutting the door behind him. "Good morning, sirs, Lord Vetinari is ready to see you now."

"Good heavens, why does he want to see these two fine upstanding gentlemen," asked Bizz.

"Shut up."

"I suggest you follow your fellows rather harsh advice. The Patrician is in the middle of a crossword puzzle."

"Crossword puzzle?"

"Indeed, dare I say the Times finally have his number." Drumknott opened the door and stepped in, holding the doorknob behind him.

Ashlar and Bizz stared at each, and Ashlar took the first step inside. As Bizz stepped in, Drumknott left the room and closed the door behind him.

Vetinari was sitting in a swivel chair and, at great disappointment to Bizz, was facing them, his head resting on his hand. Bizz noticed a copy of the Times sitting on the desk.

"Shame, I almost thought they 'had my number' for a moment, as Mr. Drumknott so aptly put it. Come in gentlemen, I'd like to have a word with you."

"There are not guards in here," unnoted Bizz.

"A very astute observation, Mr. Aldrich, though a quizical one from 'an upstanding gentlemen' such as yourself. I would think someone of your stature wouldn't need such a harsh tactic to have a civilized discussion, but I can fix that if you so wish."

"No, that won't be necessary, my lord."

"Excellent." Vetinari smiled, raising from his seat. "You and your associate here," he said, closely observing Ashlar, "have been arrested by our fair Watch on charges of aiding and embedding a foreign spy ring."

"A spy ring? That big oaf with the red hair said something about working with foreigners."

"Ah yes, I see you've met our mutual friend Captain Carrot. An upstanding young man, always standing up to his principals. He shall make a fine commander should Sir Vimes ever retire from his duties, wouldn't you say?" Vetinari rest his hand on Ashlar's shoulder.

"Uh, yes sir. Lord. Patrician. Uh..." Ashlar shook his head at his stumble.

"Do not fret young man, you may simply call me Havelock."

"Well Havelock, it was nice talking to you," Bizz interrupted, jealous of the attention Ashlar was getting, "but we thank you for clearing up that little misunderstanding."

"It's Lord Vetinari, thank you sir." He shot Bizz down. He turned his attention back to Ashlar. "Sometimes I find it necessary, vital in fact, to bend the truth every now and then. Helps to keep people's fears in check. If I go around telling people there are Klatchian spies in Ankh-Morpork, well who know what the consequences would be."

"I imagine not many people are going to splurge at the local Klatchian shopping mart," Bizz offered.

"Well it depends on where they normally shop, but you are right." Vetinari said, turning his attention to the window.

Ashlar swallowed hard. "Why are you telling us this?"

"Ah, now that is an interesting question. One that leads to another question. Perhaps on the cliché side, I admit, but one that must be asked. We originally feared that the Klatch spies were looking for secret weapon specifications of some sort. Secret weapon specifications that we do not have, of course."

"Of course."

"But it would seem we had jumped to conclusions. They were, in fact, working on their own space rocket."

"Wow, now that is a coincidence. I was just working on the same thing."

"Yes, a coincidence. Now, for your own question." Once again, Vetinari turned his attention to Ashlar. "Since you two seem to have an impeccable work relationship, I ask that you simply continue to work on your space program for the city of Ankh-Morpork."

"What? You can't make us do that. I thought this was a democracy!" cried Bizz.

"Well I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken, good sir. But you are correct, I cannot stop you. I do not hope you think anyone is trying to coerce you into anything, I am merely offering you a choice."

"And my other option?"

"You can also simply walking out that door over there." Vetinari swung his arm around, pointing his long, boney finger to a single door on the far side of the room.

Bizz pulled up his pants and angrily marched to the door. He quickly flung it open and took an authoritative step forward, before authoritatively falling forward and grabbing hold of the door, hanging on to dear life. He looked down, and saw a huge drop below complete with sharp, spikey rocks.

"Have you changed your mind, Mr. Aldrich?" asked Vetinari. Bizz swung wildly on the door, hanging on for dear life.

"More of a change of heart, you could say." Vetinari grabbed hold of the ledge with one hand, and reached out to Bizz with the other, pulling him back inside by the belt. Bizz fell to the floor and kissed the tiles of the Oblong Office.

"Does the same offer apply to me, Lord? I'm not sure if you're aware, but I can fly."

"Yes, that does take some of the luster off this particular offer, does it not? But do not worry, I have another offer for you." He walked over to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling something out and throwing it at Ashlar. He grabbed it in his arms, nearly dropping it, and examined it. It was a bottle, marked "supper glue".

"Supper?" Ashlar asked.

"My staff aren't the most well educated association in the city. Regardless, I think you understand."

"Yessir. My Lord. Havelock."

"Excellent. Now if you both would be so kind as to follow Mr. Drumknott he'll explain your first task." Vetinari sat down at his desk, and buried his note in some document. Silently, Drumknott appeared behind Bizz.

"Follow me, please."

"Whoa," Bizz jumped and turned around. "Where did you come from?"

"I presume you're asking about where I was prior to startling you, rather than where I was born, to which the answer is-"

"Yeah, I don't really care," Bizz stopped him.

"Of course you don't," Drumknott said with a edge that could cut several wheels of cheese, "follow me."

To say that they were being lead to hell would be a gross overstatement, but it was the first thing on Ashlar's mind. The total darkness of the hallway, illuminated only from Drumknott's worryingly short candle, the thick steel bars on all the windows, and the pungent smell of something not quite alive all led him to believe he was being taken to the great Sledgehammer of Doom for final judgment.

Gargoyle myth dictates that whenever a particularly weathered gargoyle reaches a certain age, they are put to the Sledgehammer of Doom and destroyed. This was rather interesting on several levels to many an outsider. Firstly, the death of a gargoyle had nothing to do with the gargoyle itself. It was always a case of "that thing's scary, we have to take it down for the children's sake" or more likely "those things are too old fashioned, we need big pointy things!" as evidenced by the palace in Al Kahli.

Secondly, the Sledgehammer of Doom has been known to spare a few lucky gargoyles from time to time. No one knew why, though some believe "sod it, we broke its leg off, that'll do" is one of the factors.

Finally was the name of the Sledgehammer of Doom itself. Gargoyles aren't good at naming things, hence why all gargoyle names sound like they came out of an architect's wet dream.

"Where exactly are we going, might I ask?"

"No, you may not, young man. The man you are about to see is a very well kept secret in the palace. Only I and Lord Vetinari know that Leonard of Quirm is being held in the secret dungeon, just behind the large portrait in Vetinari's office, for absolutely no reason."

"I can see why that'd be kept a secret," said Bizz.

"Although to be fair, it's more like he won't leave."

"Why not?" asked Ashlar.

"You'll see, right now as a matter of fact." Drumknott reached in his coat pocket and pulled out an ancient set of keys on a ring. Each key was caked in rust and dirt. Drumknott saw the expression on their faces. "The city is quite large. With all the work Vetinari has to do around here it's no wonder even he forgets a few things every now and then, like replacing the dungeon key's or his assistant's birthday.

Drumknott pushed one of the rusty key's into the door and turned it. The door opened with a great push from the small man. He took a deep breath, and raised his arm, inviting Ashlar and Bizz to step inside. Once again, Ashlar went in first with Bizz following behind him.

Inside, Ashlar saw an old man hunched over a table. The table was covered in drawings on old, crumpled sheets of paper. A single ink quill and ink well sat on the table, not in use. The old man, lying his head on the table with his arms down at his side, sat in an old chair with only three legs.

"Vetinari forget about the chair budget too?" Bizz asked Drumknott, who answered with a shrug.

Ashar walked over to the small window on the other side of the room. It was a small window, barley big enough for a small human to possibly escape. He looked out the bars, and saw a huge drop, not dissimilar from the one Bizz faced. He looked back up at the sky, and felt a strange feeling of Deja vu. "This is my life," he said. "I wonder why the old man doesn't want to leave."

"Because the outside world isn't always what it's cracked up to be," said an old, tired voice behind him.

Ashlar spun around on his concrete heel, his huge frame knocking over another table holding some kind of glass tower with liquid inside. The tower smashed on the floor and shattered, sending liquid pooling on the floor.

"I'm sorry!"

"Don't worry about it. That was my Liquid-Inside-A-Glass-Jar-That-Looks-Pretty. Made it years ago, never really liked it." He turned his attention to Drumknott. "No Vetinari today, eh?"

"I'm afraid he's quite busy not being here. These men, however, are here to provide assistance on your space rocket."

The old man, now sitting on his chair, trying to balance on the three legs, stood up. The chair fell over as he did so. "You knew about that? It's not some kind of weapon for you to turn on Klatch or Uberwald. I won't stand for it!"

"Of course not. Vetinari asked me to tell you that he wishes to give his full cooperation on this project, and is very interested in sending a..."

"A Blasting-Off-Tube-To-Space machine."

"Yes... that. He is quite interested in being the first to space."

"Of course. Everything's a bloody game of one-up around here. And these two are the help? What, you couldn't find any monkey's lying around?"

"I'm afraid the Librarian is tied up at the moment."

"Ah, bloody shame that. Okay, these two will do, as long as Vetinari stays out of this. Space has nothing to do with the politics' of man, you hear? It's a noble world free of the plights of man, so majestic in its existence."

"Yes! It's a big dark void, free of the human element and one that should be explored and enjoyed. They mystery of what's really out there can all be answered!" Bizz burst out, interrupting Drumknott.

"We have a fellow space admirer in our midst. A pleasure meeting you." Leonard didn't hold out his hand to shake, instead he gave a cursory wave and turned his attention to Ashlar. "What about you... young man?"

"How can you tell?"

"An old gargoyle set in his ways ain't going to be walking around, let alone wanting to go to space."

"Uh, well I don't really want to, you see. I didn't really have a choice."

"So Havelock's give you the choice, eh? Well might I say you choose wisely."

Leonard of Quirm turned to his paper and picked up his quill pen and started furiously writing something on a clean piece of paper. Ashlar, Bizz, and Drumknott waited on baited breath. They continued waiting, as over Leonard's shoulder they saw the drawing become more detailed.

"Mr., uh, Of Quirm?" Bizz asked.

"Hmm, yes? Was there something else?"

"As I said, these men are here to help you on the space rocket."

"Yes, yes, I heard. I'm finishing up the plans, why don't you come back when I'm done?"

"Well, I've had my own plans, maybe we could work together, perhaps?" Bizz stuck his chest out, proud of possibly being able to help.

"Good. How did you solve the power supply problem?"

"Cow manure."

"Interesting. What about the issue of protecting the ship from the atmosphere?"

"Do what now?"

"I see. Well, Mr. Man-Whose-Name-I-Don't-Know, why don't you leave the design to me. We'd need all the cows on the Disc to suffer quite the bowel movement if that's going to work, and the atmosphere on the Disc is going to destroy whatever we send up without protection. Not to mention we don't know what the Great A'Tuin will do, or the elephants for that matter, when it sees the ship. Could try to eat it." With that, Leonard turned his full attention back to his drawing, and wasn't going to stop for anything this time.

"Okay, we'll try to think of something then," Bizz offered.

"Mhmm." Leonard mumbled.

"I'm afraid that marks the end of our conversation with Mr. Leonard. Once he starts working it's like he's in his own little world. Ironic, considering he's errantly locked in a dungeon all alone. Let us leave now, gentlemen."

Drumknott ushered them out of the dungeon and started the long walk back to Vetinari's office.

"We need to start thinking about what we can do to help. I don't know who this old man is, but I'm not expecting much." Bizz crossed his arms and lay them on top of his head.

Drumknott continued walking in silence. Everyone who was "lucky", as Vetinari put it, to see Leonard of Quirm said the same thing as they left the small cell. Sometimes they'd say it so his face. "How can this crazy old man be an inventor?" He wasn't tired of hearing it, he still asked himself that every day, but he was tired of setting arrogant prats straight.

"How long have you been a rocket scientist for, exactly?" Ashlar asked.

"Why, I'm going on four months now," Bizz responded through with a grinning face.

"I see."

They emerged into Vetinari's office, where Vetinari was still buried in a mountain of paperwork. Drumknott said his goodbyes and pushed them out into the waiting room.

"Come on, we need to leave the city."

"What?"

"What's stopping us? They have no way of knowing where we are, no way of knowing if we really are working on the rocket."

Ashlar thought about it, as they walked down the stairs. "Is this rocket going to have people in it?"

"Well, mine was going to. I don't know about that crazy old man. Is it just me or did he look like a raisin?"

"Then I think it's because both of us want this. I want to travel, see space. You want to... I don't know do whatever you do."

"I mean, he literally looked like a raisin. All shriveled up and kinda purple? No?"

They walked out of the palace, Ashlar with his head held up high and thoughts full of space and exploration. Bizz thinking about whether or not people actually like raisins, because who does, right?

As quickly as Drumknott said goodbye and pushed the two out of the room, he closed the door.

"Excellent performance, my lord. You really had us all fooled. Why, for a second there I genuinely thought you were doing paperwork."

"Ah, so you realized it was a ruse. Good eye, Drumknott." Vetinari dropped his pen and clapped his hands together. He got up out of the chair, and stood by the window.

"My lord, why do you trust those two with helping Leonard build the rocket?"

"Because believe it or not, I think even our good friend Mr. Leonard is a bit out of his league, so to speak, on this whole space rocket issue."

Drumknott noticed the use of the word "our" and took a mental note to reassure Vetinari this was not the case. "But still, those two?"

"Oh yes, Drumknott. Do not let their looks deceive you. I think those two will prove quite useful."

Despite what many may think, Vetinari was in reality a very humble man. He instinctively uses "think" instead of "know" out of humbleness. Of course, he's so humble he has come around the other way and is cocky. Drumknott has long since realized that when Vetniari "thinks" something, he really knows something that no one else does.

"Yes, my lord. Is there anything else I can get you?" the clerk asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Vetinari unread copy of The Times and laid it on top of the stack of equally unread paperwork. "I would like you to contact our friend Mr. de Word and tell him that Ankh-Morpork will be the first to send a man into space."

Again, Drumknott noted the use of "our", and made another mental note.

**Chapter 4**

The Klatchian agent crumpled up the newspaper as he read, and threw it down on the floor. He spat on it, and crushed it under his feet.

"Have you read this?" Matek growled.

"No. It's going to be difficult now."

"Vetinari said Ankh will be the first to send a man in space!"

"He won't tell the reporter if he doesn't have a good reason. He wants us to get riled up, to throw us off our game. You need to remain calm, cool, and collected. Can you do that? If not, I'll bring in Joseph to replace you."

"Joseph can't even tie his own shoes! He has to wear those Velcro ones."

"I fail to see how the ability or lack thereof is relevant to spying." Abir said.

"It does if he ever needs to use his shoelaces to make a makeshift lasso."

"Matek, what will he, or either of us, ever need to make a makeshift lasso for?"

"To lasso things."

Abir took a calm, cool, and collected breath and thought about using his calm, cool, and collected first on Matek's face. But he quickly thought better of it.

This was Abir's last chance in the Klatchian Intelligence Agency. He'd been their best spy, but too many years of being a loose arrow had taken their toll on his trustability. He'd skirted the rules one too many times, and experience told him that this time he wasn't going to get away with it. He'd have to do things by the book; the big, heavy, moldy book.

Things were already going badly when they had to cancel the contract with Bizz Aldrich. Klatch was counting on his plans to quickly put together a rocket, although instead of having the intentions to go to space, they wanted one that could deliver a concentrated payload of destructive magic. They realized Ankh was on to them when one of their agents tried to steal an early version of Bizz's plans, so they had to be more careful.

But now, with this article about space exploration, the Klatchian government had rather quickly decided to shift gears. Instead of creating a rocket to bomb Ankh-Morpork, they were going to build a rocket to deliver a man to space. Abir didn't understand it, granted he didn't understand anything that didn't involve killing other people, but this was even more out of his level of understanding.

Their job had switched from acquiring plans, to devising their own, and somehow slowing down Ankh's space ability.

"I need you right now," he told Matek. He knew he was better off without him, but he had to work with what he had. "We're not scientists, we're spies. So I need you to stay focused, not get upset because that's what they want. Okay?"

"Okay, boss," Matek regretfully looked down to his feet.

"Now we just need to wait for that damn gargoyle."

"You called?" echoed a deep voice from the other side of the room. The small hotel room they were staying in wasn't great by any stretch of the imagination; they didn't even have free towels to steal. But at the very least noise didn't echo.

"Ah, Mr. Corbel. I was just telling my associate about that Ashlar gentleman working on the-" Abir's tone was light, friendly, and welcoming but was quickly shot down by the gargoyle, stepping through the window and having a seat at the table.

"Save your niceties, Klatchian dog. Neither one of us likes each other, so let's get this over with Besides, Ashlar is no gentleman." Again, the deep sound of what must have been Death himself echoed in the room.

"With pleasure." Abir's tone turned harsh and angry.

He noticed as the huge statue sat down at the chair that this gargoyle was indeed beyond the definition of "huge". This is their first face to face meeting, and Abir could tell in an instant this gargoyle was no mere decoration. Somehow, Corbel had found himself with a small fortune. It was rare for a gargoyle to be able to rub two pennies together, mostly because no one in their right mind would rub bits of metal together, but the fact that Corbel was rich was bizarre indeed.

"Let's speed this up, I don't like being indoors with you filthy humans." Matek thought about providing comic relief by hilariously saying that'd just washed a week ago, but whenever he made a joke it never seemed to come out right, so decided to remain silent.

"We had good reason to ask you here, I can assure you. I'd like to make you an offer."

Like any other teenager who decided to break their parent's rules, Ashlar found himself in a situation that has quickly spiraled out of control. Although a part of him was ready to get into space and do whatever it is people do while floating in the void, a bigger part of him wanted to be alive when the time came. Right now, he just wanted to go home and suck up to his mother.

But Bizz was the classic grade school bully who could sense his anxiety, and swung the mighty sword of peer pressure with mighty authority.

"Look, all we have to do is find a fuel source and something to stop it from blowing up. What could be easier?"

"I can think of a couple of things."

"Like what?"

Ashlar was caught off guard and quickly looked around their surroundings. "Making a sandwich," he said, staring at a man biting off a bit more than he could chew, all too literally.

"What else?"

"I'm not playing this game, Bizz. I just want to go home."

"And you can as soon as we figure out a plan. Look, we're in this together. If we fail... actually Vetinari didn't go over what would happen if we fail."

"I thought it was pretty obvious."

"All the more reason why we can't fail. Is that guy alright?" Ashlar looked over at the man with the sandwich. He no longer had the sandwich in his hands, nor was he sitting in the chair. He was lying on the floor, desperately grabbing his throat with both hands and wheezing as if he just smoked four packs of cigarettes.

"I'm sure he's fine."

Wheeeeze.

"What if we used a mixture of cow and horse manure."

"That man's trying to eat his meal," Ashlar cried.

Wheeeeze.

"I'm pretty sure he's trying to breath, actually. Not doing very well."

Before Ashlar could reply, a crow landed outside the cafe window, landing on the potted plant hanging on the window. It started pecking at the window.

"It's got something on its neck," Bizz said. Ashlar saw that the crow was wearing a collar with a small capsule hanging on its neck like a St. Bernard.

The two gave each other "the look" and rushed out of their chairs to the crow outside. Ashlar swallowed the crow in his massive palms as Bizz opened the capsule, pulling out a small scroll.

"Why the hell would a crow deliver a message?"

"Let me see it." He opened his palms and the crow flew away with a new lease on life having escaped the clutches of the terrible concrete monster that just trapped him in the black prison. He was ready to fly home and see his kids for the first time in years, until he caught sight of a passerby and decided to relieve himself on their head instead.

Ashlar uncoiled the scroll and began reading.

"Where do gargoyles learn how to read?" Bizz mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Oh crap, it's from my mom. She wants me back home this instant, young man! Do you have any idea what this means?" Whatever planet you're on, your mother uttering the words "young man", in whatever language, was synonymous with trouble. Trouble that you were in, and trouble that would get worse with each passing second you weren't there to receive it.

"Where do gargoyles learn to write?" Bizz again mumbled.

"I'm sorry, why don't you think of something on your own, I've gotta go."

"Hey, we're in this together."

"You're the rocket scientist here." Ashlar screamed as he flew away.

"Four and a half months and counting," Bizz said puffing out his chest as he saw the giant gargoyle fade into a spec in the daytime sky.

"Crap, crap, crap!" It was usually a phrase used by the plumbers and night-soil cart pushers across the Disc. But in this instance, it was sputtered out by a teenager flying hundreds of feet above the city of Ankh-Morpork. Coincidently, it was also being used at the same time by a random passerby who'd just had a bird relieve itself on his head.

It wasn't hard to get back home, just follow the rich, nervous looking people and you'd get back to the bank sooner or later. His mother knew this, so he couldn't simply say he got lost and call it a day. He'd have to be more creative. He just landed on the roof of the bank, choosing to land on the opposite side of his mother, and he still didn't have a suitable excuse. Teenagers were supposed to be good at this, he thought.

He approached Truss. "Hey mom."

"What do you have to say for yourself young one?" Ashlar noticed she'd actually gone through the trouble of putting her arms on her hips and forming an angry face. You don't escape the angry face, especially when they have to go through the effort of making it.

"I went to get the pigeon's, and what happened was, they flew off. So I figured I'd go follow them."

"Perfectly sensible so far."

"Yes, well, they were really fast pigeons."

"They tend to be."

"Yes, and I wasn't able to catch them, you see. So I thought I'd find something else for dinner instead, because I didn't want my dear ol- my dear mother to not eat."

"Very thoughtful of you."

"Thank you. So, I went to this market stall to get some... some fish, right, and then the Watch came and arrested me. I have no idea why."

"The Watch? Commander Vimes is very much against gargoyles walking around the streets."

"Exactly. So I was thrown in this cell with a man who… thought he was a dragon. Yeah. He said he was going to break us out and that I could ride on his back. So, uh, I called the guards over because he just told me he was going to escape. He was a troll too, did I mention that? Well, you know how the Watch feels about Trolls. They opened the door and started hitting him. With sticks."

"I don't imagine sticks would do much against a troll. Did he shoot fire at them?"

"What? Oh yeah, no, he just sat there like it was nothing. So, I took the chance while they left the door open, and left. They saw me, and chased me. I went to Vetinari himself for help, because I didn't do anything wrong."

"Of course not."

"No. So I met Vetinari, and he told the guards to leave me alone and told the Watch to stop being mean to gargoyles. And that's how I saved Hogswatch!" Ashlar spread his arms above his head and forced an insecure smile.

"Was there a point to that story?" His mother asked, now slowly crossing her arms.

Ashlar hung his head. "No." He wasn't sure where he was going with that, it just snowballed out of control and all he could do was strap on and try to enjoy the ride.

She tried to put on a more motherly tone, although having vocal cords made of rebar made her sound like a vehicle accident trying to converse. "Constable Downspout came by earlier today and told me everything. Can you just be honest with me, son?"

"What? When did that double crosser come over?

"While you were sitting in a jail cell with a strange man. Mr. Vimes thought it would be a good idea. A good man, Downspout, don't blame him for joining the Watch and fulfilling his civic duty."

"Oh, it's okay for him to move about and not act like a 'proper' gargoyle."

"Yes, because he's not my son."

Ashlar had had enough and started to walk off to his corner of the bank when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. His mother shifted to her left slightly, and pointed to a small table with some papers on it.

"Where'd that come from?" he asked, circling back around to get a closer look.

"That's not important. What is important, are these," she picked up the papers and waved them in front of him. "These are letters written by the others about your... habits. Clark's Gable, Plinth, Corbel, Downspout, you even have that poor girl Lunette worried sick about you."

A smile broke out across Ashlar's face. "Lunette's worried about me?"

"That's right. You can't expect her to keep an interest in you if you keep throwing caution to the wind. Actually, she's a teenager, that's exactly what'll attract her. Why, I remember when I was first being sculpted by your father- nevermind that."

"How'd gargoyle's learn to write?"

"I'm going to read this to you, Ashlar. This isn't to humiliate you, this is to help you son."

"How'd we learn how to read?"

"I'd read Lunette's first, that should keep your interest." She grabbed the paper on the top of the stack and put the rest back on the table. She clawed at it for a while, trying to unfold the page but didn't have much luck with her thick, cement fabricated hands.

"I mean, all we do is sit around all the time. I wouldn't think that's something we'd know how to do. Is it evolution maybe?"

Finally Truss managed to unfold the page using her Goth inspired fangs. She wasn't actually sure if they were Goth inspired, but it certainly looked like something those young kids dressed in black would wearing. "Are you listening?"

Ashlar thought about it. His mother didn't normally say more than a few words on any given day. Most of them were "that's nice dear", "stop doing that honey", and on rare occasions she even ventured so far as to say "look at that man in the black mask being chased by the Watch, I wonder what he did". But on the other hand, she's totally wrong on this. He knows everything and if she just listened to what he had to say he'd definitely change her mind.

"Mom, why don't you listen to me for a change?"

"I am your mother, sort of. Don't give me that." She looked down at the letter, and, accepting his fate, Ashlar sat down to listen. "Ashlar, I'm really worried about you running around all the time, and so are my dad and your mom. I know you want to see the world but it's not all it's cracked up to be, believe me. That's what my dad says anyway.

"To be honest I want to go out and explore to, but my dad won't let me. He's been up here for centuries, just watching whatever comes by, but he says it's a gargoyle's place. He taught me how to read and write. I don't really know how he managed it honestly."

"Yeah, that's what I said," Ashlar interrupted.

Truss put the letter down and quickly reached for another. "We'll just forget about that one for now, the young lady doesn't seem to understand the point of this. If I can just get this letter open." Once again she was struggling to unfold the paper. "This one's from Plinth."

"Lunette's dad?"

If he could, Ashlar would have gulped at the thought for dramatic purposes. Plinth was Lunette's dad, a best of a gargoyle over three hundred years old. Some even think he's as old as the city itself. Over the years the wear and tear of living in Ankh never seemed to get to him like other old gargoyles. Whatever his secret was, it wasn't likely that it'd allow his daughter to be whisked away by anyone.

She finally got this letter opened and began reading. "What you're doing is wrong. It's not the way of the gargoyle and its wrong." She stopped reading and turned the page over. "That's all it said."

"Not a very convincing argument, is it?" Corbel came flying in, landing on top of the bank far more daintily than a gargoyle should. "He didn't explain why his point was important, he didn't try to appeal to the child's sense of reason, he didn't even swear or write in all capital letters. Must try harder next time, yeah?"

Truss wrinkled her brow, and gave him a stare the most ancient of Visigoths would have been proud of. She never liked Corbel, always giving him these legendarily evil stares that simultaneously say "It's good to see you again" and "I'm going to rip your throat out if you don't leave as soon as possible". Mothers can be very violent after years of raising a child.

Ashlar didn't quite know why she hated Corbel so much. Perhaps it was because he travels a lot, well, a lot for a gargoyle. By all means, he knew he should envy the old gargoyle. But something deep down inside, the kind of thing that told you not to eat that bit of moldy cheese no matter how much of a delay it was, had always told him that Corbel was someone not to be trusted.

"What do you want?" Ashlar asked, as Corbel, ignoring Truss' glare, stepped closer to him.

"I've come for the intervention my dear boy." He turned to Truss, still trying to piece his heart with her gaze. "That's what this little show is, isn't it?" He motioned to the letters.

"I've already received your letter, there's no need to come yourself."

"Ah-ha, you see ma'am, there's where I disagree. It's much better to do these kinds of things in person, one can be more," he paused for dramatic effect, "demonstrative." In a private moment, he would admit it wasn't very dramatic at all, but it's still the thought that counts.

Corbel was an odd case in the local community. He was one of the few gargoyles who had his own business, and it was quite successful. He had become rich and purchases a large mansion in the center of Anhk for which he could perch himself on the roof. He was even a philanthropist, allowing poor and even the occasional tramp to stay in the mansion itself, since he had no reason for the indoor area.

Despite his advanced age even for a gargoyle, he was still an active part of that business. He found the best way to keep people on their feet was to insert dramatic pauses occasionally to build suspense. It hid the fact that he didn't always know what the others in financial meetings were talking about quite well.

Yet despite the hatred he garnished, he was still someone the other gargoyles looked up to, almost with as much respect as Clark's Gable. However you act, or whatever ancient, sacred customers you break tend to be overlooked when you have enough money to influence the Patrician. It didn't matter if that last bit was true or not.

"You see, my lad," he started.

"Anything you say I'm just going to counter by saying 'look in a mirror'." It was a good argument, Ashlar thought. Well thought out and articulated and everything. That'll learn him.

"You're absolutely right, my boy. Why, I came here to tell you that you have every right to travel Ankh-Morpork, even the whole of the Disc itself if you so desire." A smile broke out across Corbel's face.

"What?" Suddenly Ashlar realized his well thought out argument depended entirely on there actually being an argument.

"When I was your age, I wanted the exact same thing, and you do you know what? I did just that. I traveled the city and did a bit of 'exotic exploration', and then formed my Limestone business. I've lived quite the extraordinary life, I must say."

"Excuse me," Truss started, but Corbel waved her down. A wave of Corbel's hand was a powerful thing.

"Indeed, quite the life, full of danger, life threatening situations, impossibly difficut situations. Why, I even remember the odd mugging every now and then."

Ashlar gulped. "Mugging?"

"Oh yes, men with bloody great jackhammers wanting to see if these diamonds were real." Corbel pointed to his eyes, which were two pieces of what looked to be diamonds, but upon further inspection were just shards of glass.

"Now you're just scaring the poor boy," rumbled Truss.

"That is the point, ma'am. If young Ashlar wishes to abandon the ways of the gargoyle as I have, he's going to have to realize the kind of danger's he'll be throwing himself into, head first usually. I want him to understand what kind of life he's giving up, just so he can fulfill whatever careless life he has hunting kangaroo's in EcksEcksEcksEcks and seducing columns in Klatch."

"It's my life," he yelled, "and I can do as I please with it."

"Yes, son, that's what I just said."

"Yeah, well, right now I don't have a choice. Vetinari is gonna hang me, or hit me with a sledgehammer or something if I don't help build this rocket."

"Come now dear. Corbel, can't you use your influence on Vetinari to change his mind."

Corbel stumbled for a minute. "Uh, yes, well, I'm afraid I can't really... use my influence to... change the punishment of... those he deems as criminals. It would be highly... reckless of me to do such. As it were."

"It doesn't matter, mom. I want to do this anyway, no matter what. This is my chance to not only explore, but to do something no one has ever done, and I'll be damned if I let any of you stop me!" He ran, or rather attempted to run, and jumped off the side of the bank, flying away in the nighttime sky.

"I just don't know what to do with him sometimes." Truss sighed.

"He's just going through a phase," Corbel said, patting Truss on the shoulder. She looked up and gave him another one of her stares as if to remind him of his place. He let go of her, took a step back, and cleared his throat in embarrassment. "Right then, I see I am no longer needed here."

"You were never needed here," Truss said under her breath.

"Have a nice night, Mrs. Truss."

Corbel jumped off the bank in the opposite direction of Ashlar, and flew off into the night.

Unseen University's main tower stood over the city like an erect- like a large tower. Generally it was closed off to the population at large. It's not that the wizards hated human interaction, they quite liked showing off their knowledge to the uneducated masses.

It was this knowledge that led to the University being fenced off, as a great deal of people came to them with any number of problems. And people with problems were the kind of people who wanted solutions, even if you didn't have them.

Bizz had lived in Anhk long enough to know that you were better of ignoring the wizards, but he'd come to a point where he had nowhere else to turn. He had a few ideas for the rocket propulsion, but nothing solid, and didn't have a clue what to do about protecting the ship from the Disc's harsh atmosphere off. He didn't know what the atmosphere was made of, or even what it was at all, but he knew it wasn't something that was designed to let big metal things in or out.

Much like the iron bars in front of him, guarding the University.

"I've got a great big, magical, uh, thing," he yelled at a group of wizards congregating in the courtyard.

"You'll want to see the Seamstress Guild about that, then," hollered back one of the wizard to a chorus of laughter from the others.

"Oh come on, I just need help with one tiny thing."

"Well in that case, you might want to skip the Seamstresses and see the doctor, mate," yelled the wizard, to the same effect.

"Don't make me come in there!"

"You'll definitely want to see the Seamstresses for that." Another wave of laugher, this time one of the wizards fell backwards off his chair, dropping his sandwich.

"Sorry, I've got your mother for that," Bizz replied.

"Hey," said the wizard, standing up and approaching the gate, "my mum quit that years ago." Again the other wizards laughed, though this time Bizz joined them.

"Yeah, well, you're mom's... a Mongel!" He turned to his friends, who had suddenly gone quiet, raising their collective eyebrow and looking questioningly at one another.

"Had a bit of trouble with that one, didn't you?" Bizz asked.

"I was hoping that phrase would sort itself out after I said it." The wizard rubbed his chin, and looked back at his friends, who were all trying to suppress a laugh. "Look, mate, we're not going to help you so bugger off." The wizard walked back to his friends, and sat down after smacking one of the others on the back of the head.

Bizz, rather sensibly, realized he didn't really want their help, and sulked away.

Bizz slumped down in the first chair he saw. Almost as soon as he sat down, a young woman in a white shirt and black pants and apron came up to him. She pulled out a pen pad from her pocket and a pencil and said, "How can I take your order?" in a Klatchian accent.

In sheer disbelief, Bizz got up from the chair and looked took a look around. Slowly his mind processed what he saw. He definitely sat down on a chair, a nice wooden one with red cushions and a small table. It was outdoors, and close to the street. He could see the university down the street. There was a building there, with a sign that hung over it in a language he couldn't read. As far as he could tell it was Funny-Red-Squiggly-Lines Cafe.

Finally, he sat back down. "Have those bloody wizards sent me to Klatch?"

"Bloody wizards?" the waitress asked.

"Well, I ask on account of your accent and that sign." He pointed his thumb up, where the waitress' eyes followed. "And I've never been to a restaurant in Ankh-Morpork where the waiters actually serve their customers, let alone bolt outside at the first sign of a butt sitting down."

"Waitress," she corrected him.

"Right, sorry. You certainly are." He looked her over. "You wouldn't know how to build a rocket by any chance, would you?"

"Um, is that some kind of local delicacy?"

"Nevermind." Bizz slumped back down in the chair. "What have you got to drink here, miss?"

"This is primarily a coffee shop, sir."

"Right, yeah, a coffee sounds good. I'm freezing my ba- my a- its cold out here."

The waitress jotted his order on the pad and walked back inside without saying a word.

Bizz had a look around the small cafe. He rarely went to this part of town, but he never noticed this place before. Even he had to admit he stunning coincidence of a Klatchian coffee shop appearing seemingly out of nowhere at a time like this.

He looked to his left and saw two men, speaking what had to have been Klatchian, sit down at the next table over. One of them pulled out a copy of the Times, in which the headline read "Ankh Spy Killed In Al Khali! - Geographical Confusion, or Something More?"

"Geographical Confusion," Bizz mumbled to himself. He was silently wondering if some kind of crime had been committed against vernacular as a whole when he heard a loud explosion and someone yelling from inside the cafe. The two men speaking Klatch sat, continuing their conversation as if nothing happened.

Bizz got up and went to the big windows and peered inside. The dinners, almost exclusively Klatchians as far as he could tell, also continued their conversations, oblivious to the explosion. He saw the waitress walking towards the door with a tray full of different cups, and curiously enough a pair of gloves. When she got outside, he noticed one of the cups was steaming like a witch's cauldron.

"Umm, about that explosion," he noticed he'd instinctively taken a step back as the waitress drew closer.

She sat the tray down on the table. "Oh, you never have Klatch coffee before?" She asked with a terrified look in her eyes.

"No. Is there some kind of form I have to fill out first?" He took a tentative step towards the tray, and looked into the cup that was steaming. Inside was a sticky brown ooze that was bubbling, and for a moment he thought he could hear it dissolving the cup.

"I think it's best if I explain something to you," the waitress said, still terrified. "Klatch coffee is a bit... strong, you could say." On cue, someone else inside the cafe screamed. "It's usually drunk with some Orakh afterwards. And sometimes an ambulance has to be called."

"You're not really selling me on this."

"Technically you already ordered."

Then it hit Bizz like an eight foot high statue. "Is it flammable, by any chance?"

"What do you think would happen if you drank it?" Bizz asked Ashlar, as they sat outside the oblong office. Ashlar was holding a pitcher full of the brown liquid Bizz bought from the cafe. He wisely made Ashlar hold it. "Do you think it's caustic?"

"I'm not drinking it." Ashlar looked away from Bizz. The last thing he wanted to do was sit in some office with Bizz, waiting outside Vetinari's office, holding a pot full of deadly brown sauce. Although the deadly part did appeal to him, on some level.

"What's wrong?" Bizz asked, trying to put on a concerned voice. He was pleased with it.

"Nothing."

"Ah, 'nothing'. Always a sign that something's wrong. Don't you think so?" Ashlar looked over and saw Drumknott standing over them.

"Indeed," he said.

"Perhaps he had an argument with his mother? That's what teenagers do, right?"

"I don't know," said Drumknott, "I've never been one before."

"It's the hormone's, they say." Bizz added 'they say' to the end as a tacit admission to not knowing what he was talking about. "Make's young teens rebellious against authority and makes them want to play a bit of hanky-panky."

Ashlar turned red, figuratively speaking. "Stop it."

"Do you think gargoyles have hormones?" Bizz asked.

"I doubt it," said Drumknott. "Can I help you boys with something, besides the anatomy of gargoyles?"

"Yep, we need to go see the old man."

"Would that be Leonard or Vetinari." Drumknott let out a little chuckle, and suppressed it by cover his mouth with his hand daintily. Bizz and Ashlar gave him a questioning look. "I do apologize. Lord Vetinari said I should have more of sense of humor, but I don't think it's doing much for me. It the indigestion." Drumknott grabbed his stomach with one hand and chuckled again. "That was a joke he said."

Ashlar and Bizz gave each other another look and shrugged their shoulders. Bizz tried to chuckle, but it sounded more like a cough.

"Alright, fine. Let's go," Drumknott made it a point to sound offended as he ushered them along the corridor to a small door. They walked down a slightly different corroder from the last, this one containing more cobwebs and bottomless pits, Bizz noticed. Eventually they made it to their destination, as Bizz burst into Leonard's cell, grabbing the pitcher from Ashlar.

"Old man, we've found your rocket fuel! Well, I did. Ashlar didn't do a damn thing." He held up the pitcher of Klatch coffee, and quickly pulled it back down as he felt it slosh around in its container.

Leonard was standing at the same table as before, probably looking at the same plans as before, Ashlar thought.

"Let me see that," he detached himself from the plans and snatched the pitcher out of Bizz's hands with little care. He took it over to a torch and peered inside.

"Be careful," Ashlar cried.

Leonard didn't listen. He raised it to his nose and took a deep breath. A puzzled look flashed across his face, but his features twisted into a shape that shouldn't physically be possible. After shaking his head violently, he shocked everyone in the room and took a sip.

Bizz jumped behind Ashlar for cover, as Drumknott looked on in confusion. Leonard let out a belch, and beat his chest before clearing his throat.

"Klatchian coffee? I haven't thought about that." He walked over to the table and set the pitcher down, grabbing a quill and quickly jotting notes down. He started whispering something under his breath as he picked up the pace of his drawing.

"We can't use Klatch coffee," Drumknott said as Ashlar pried Bizz off his back. "We're directly competing with Klatch to construct the rocket. What will the people say when they find out we're using their coffee as fuel?" He put extra emphasis on 'their'.

"Relax, they aren't going to know."

"Besides," Ashlar added, "It's just coffee, there's no way it's going to work."

"Yes, this will work perfectly!" Leonard yelled, as he cleared the table of his drawings and reached under the table.

"Of course." Ashlar rolled his eyes.

"But what's the point of building a ship ourselves if we're going to use other people's resources? This should be a Morporkian ship one hundred percent." Drumknott made sure to add a little something extra to 'other people's' this time, to make sure they'd understand his scathing criticism.

Re-emerging from under the table, Leonard pulled out a long metal tube, this one thinner than the one made by Bizz. It too had a metal cone on top, although this one was pointier, and didn't look as if it glued down at the last minute. Instead, it screwed off, and he pulled the coffee down into the tube, all of it.

"Uh, Mr. Leonard, I don't think that's such a good idea," said Ashlar.

"Ah, it'll be fine, my boy." He sat it down on the table and fished out a cord attached to the bottom of the miniature rocket. "Watch this," he said as he struck a match and lit the cord.

Bizz and Drumknott jumped under a nearby table, while the quicker witted Leonard simply stood behind an immobilized six foot tall statue that just happened to be in his shop.

He had just enough time to register that the statue seemed to have his mouth hanging open, a strange disposition for a gargoyle. He made a note to himself that he would have to delve into further research of the creatures as he watched the ignition cord fizzle away towards the rocket.

From their positions, they covered their ears and waited anxiously for various reasons. Bizz for an explosion that would destroy the entire palace, Drumknott an inevitable failure that would spew caustic liquids all over the room, and Ashlar to regain his motor functions.

The ignition cord fizzed away into the bowels of the rocket and instantly shot the device straight up. The rocket arced, turning towards Ashlar for a brief moment before regaining its stability and shooting up through the ceiling. Bits of rubble fell from ceiling where some of it bounced off the top of the table and fell to the floor harmlessly. But some fell directly on Leonard's head, making him not feel so quick witted after all.

"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle," said Bizz, crawling out from under the table.

"You better not let the librarian hear you say that," said Drumknott, emerging beside Bizz.

Leonard pulled himself up through the rubble and ran over to his notes, not stopping to pat the dust and dirt off himself.

"That's one less problem, isn't that right?" Bizz slapped Ashlar in the back.

"What?" Ashlar yelled, snapping back to life with a jolt.

"If we use enough coffee in an attached vat to the rocket we should have enough fuel to get to space and back." Leonard said, still scrawling in his notes.

"I'm afraid I cannot allow this, gentlemen." Drumknott had a habit of stopping celebrations, a fact he was quite proud of.

"But... it worked!" Ashlar didn't know what else to say, be he felt he had to throw himself back into the conversation.

"We cannot use Klatchian coffee in an Ankh-Morpork ship, especially not when we're directly competing with them on a space rocket." They could practically see Drumknott tucking his thumbs behind his overalls and puffing out his chest.

"Bah, try telling that to Vetinari." Bizz said.

"I do not need to, Vetinari shares the same opinions as I. Probably."

"Isn't that coffee made in Ankh-Morpork?" Ashlar offered.

"Doesn't matter, it's still got Klatchian roots in it, bark as well."

Leonard, growing tired of the non-argument, ripped off a piece of paper and scribbled something on it. He grabbed the now shattered pitcher originally containing the coffee, located the "Klatchian Coffee" logo on one of the shards, and slapped the paper down over 'Klatchian'. He handed the glass to Drumknott and went back to his notes.

"Ankhian Coffee?"

"Problem solved, let's go Ashlar." Bizz wrapped his arm around Ashlar and the two left the cell.

"But that doesn't change anything!" cried Drumknott. He looked at the new logo in his hand and sighed. "How about Coffee Le Ankh? Sounds more classy."

Ashlar and Bizz stepped out of the palace and were greeted by a warm spring day. Of course, a warm spring day in Ankh was the equivalent of a summer day in a dessert that had a smog problem, but it was nice none the less.

"I've got a good feeling about this, Ash."

"I can't believe how quickly this is all coming together. Who would have thought building a spaceship was so easy?"

"You had to go and jinx it didn't you?"

"What? You don't actually believe in jinxes do you?"

"I believe that counting your eggs before they're fried is tempting the gods."

"Just because I said things are going quickly doesn't mean something bad is going to happen."

As if the gods were listening, something happened. It wasn't the grand, omnipotent intervention one would expect, but to a teenage boy it was more than enough to throw a monkey wrench in the works.

Lunette decided from on high and landed with a thud in front of the palace's lax guards. Ashlar, having never seen Lunette travel to the ground, or indeed much at all, was in another state of frozen shock. Girls held a special power over boys Ashlar's age.

"Dad told me what you were doing."

"Um, hi Lunette," Ashlar finally managed to muster.

"Ashlar, I want to help you and your friend build a spaceship." As Ashlar jaw rocketed to the ground, much like Leonard's rocket eventually did to the man with the white stain on his head, Bizz approached Lunette.

"Is this your girlfriend?" he asked Ashlar. "You have lovely, uh, wings ma'am."

Lunette gasped, and aimed a punch square at Bizz's jaw. She missed, but this was of little consultation to Bizz as he flew backwards after being hit on the nose instead. He reached for his nose and saw blood dripping on his hand.

"Oh my goodness, I'm sorry. I forgot how... squishy humans were." Despite the apology, she made no effort to help him up.

Bizz slowly picked himself up and clamped his nose shut with one hand, and wiping the blood of onto his jeans with the other. "Ma'am, I've been a rocket scientist for 8 months now, and in all this time I've never met anyone who makes me want to fly to the moon faster than you."

She ignored him and turned her attention back to Ashlar, who was still standing there, much to his credit, like a statue.

"What do you say, Ash?"

"Um, you'll have to ask Bizz."

"That's right, we're in this together," he screamed.

She continued ignoring him. "Come on. I'm tired of sitting around that roof all the time. I've always wanted to travel but I never had the guts to do it like you. That's what I admired about you." She smiled and turned her head to the side. This snapped Ashlar out of his dazed and confused state, but not in the way Lunette hoped.

"Trying to butter me up, huh? I'm not that easy you know."

Lunette dropped the smile. "I just want to be a part of this, okay? Ashlar, you can't just go and live the dream and leave your friends behind like this. Finally get the chance to travel, but strike that chance down for everyone else."

Bizz, sensing this was getting serious, mumbled something about need to use the litlte boys room and scooted away without being noticed.

"It's not like that Lunette. This isn't some all-expense paid vacation to the Chalk."

"Why the Chalk?"

"It's the first place I could think of. Look, this is serious. We're under orders from Lord Vetinari himself. If we screw this up Bizz will be looking at the gallows and I'll have a date with a sledgehammer." Lunette winced at the mentioning. "Not to mention space travel is dangerous. Probably. I would assume so at any rate."

"You're going to give me this speech?"

"I kinda already did."

"I'm helping you, and that's final."

Ashlar looked around for Bizz and was surprised to not find him. "Uh, okay. But if you dad finds out about this he's going to kill me."

"Don't worry about my dad, he won't do anything."

"Uh, what exactly does 'anything' mean in this context?"

She thought about it for a second. "Take a sledgehammer to your wings."

"Oh, how reassuring."

The two gave each other a nod and walked down the stairs side by side. Ashlar's pitted hand brushed against Lunette's. He noticed how smooth her concrete was, how warm it felt against his hand. He was worried he was forcing his hand against hers, and gasped before snatching his hand away and taking a step away. As he did so, he misplaced his foot and fell down the short set of stairs.

Lunette rushed down to tend to him. She reached out her hand, to which Ashlar accepted. She pulled him up, and they met face to face. "Ashlar, you have a crack on your face. You should go to the sculptor."

'The sculptor' was the broad term gargoyle's used for their equivalent of a doctor. They would apply a grey paste into cracks, sealing them inside out. Other than that, there wasn't much need for an alive gargoyle to visit such place, as sculptors couldn't help but critique one another's work. Bizz's attempt at a compliment wasn't the first time someone felt the almighty wrath of Lunette for mentioning her wings.

"No, it happened earlier when I fell... when I was arrested by the Watch."

"Oh really? How'd they do that with their night sticks?"

"Um..."

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Bizz interrupted, "but we really do need to get a move on. We still have to find the missing piece."

"What's that?" Lunette asked, thrusting herself into complex and difficult problems that aren't likely to be solved quickly.

"We need to find a way to protect the ship from the Disc's atmosphere."

"Oh, that should be easy. I know just the thing."

One forced scene transition later, and they were at the Drawf Bread Museum. Much to Ashlar's relief Captain Carrot was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the doors were opened by Mr. Steelbunt, who informed the party that he was volunteering at the museum for the first time after losing his job to the otherwise unnamed "them".

As the three peaked into the museum a glaringly obvious problem that they hadn't thought of became abundantly clear.

The gargoyle is, height wise, some god's antithesis to the dwarf. If you stacked five dwarfs on top of each other you'd look rather silly, and the dwarfs wouldn't best be happy either. But the resulting, kicking and likely stabbing totem still wouldn't fully reach the sheer height of the gargoyle.

Bizarrely, the dwarfs who built the building the bread museum lies in didn't foresee the possibility of two gargoyles wanting to step inside. Neither did they see a six foot tall rocket scientist of ten months wanting to go inside either, but at least the dwarfs were up front about it.

"How does Captain Carrot do it?" Bizz asked.

"I don't know, probably just ducks his head I figure." Bizz ducked his head as far as he could. "No, that won't do. Try tucking in your knees a bit, yeah like that." Bizz bent his knees down and out, and now resembled a horrifying cross between a chicken and a penguin.

"I don't want to sound rude, but perhaps the next time you build a museum centered around the wonders of flour and yeast you might want to make the ceiling a touch higher."

"No point," said Steelbunt, as he entered the museum. "No one but dwarfs come in here."

His voice was muffled as he made his way inside. Bizz gave Ashlar and Lunette one last sad puppy dog impersonation before slowly entering the building, comedically bumping his head on the top of the door, because of the rules of comedy.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Ashlar asked.

"Likely not, no."

It dawned on Ashlar that he wasn't sure why they were even there. Sure they wanted use dwarf bread as a shield on the ship, but surely they didn't have to go to the museum to get some. One wouldn't go to a zoo to acquire a dog. He posed this question to Lunette, who came up with the idea of the bread and coming to the museum.

"Because I've always wanted to see the museum," she responded with glee.

Ashlar gave her a sideways look. "You what?"

"I love the idea of exploring other cultures, and what better way to experience the life of a dwarf then by going to the bread museum?"

"By going in a mine and bashing people in the head with an axe. Besides, you can't go inside."

"Of course I'm not going inside, I'm still a gargoyle. I'm perfectly content with sitting out here and staring in through the door."

"Owww!" they heard, as the screech echoed outside the door. At the same time, they heard a bump and something going 'thud'. A small voice said something in a language they didn't understand, and seconds later Bizz came rushing out dragging a heavy brown bag behind him. He didn't say anything as he walked past the gargoyles, trying and failing to hide a newly acquired limp.

"Um, are-"

"Don't," Ashlar whispered. "Hey Bizz, I think I thought of a new problem."

"There's no way in hell we can build a ship out of this. It's too damn impossible to cut," he cursed behind him shoulder.

They walked in silence for several minutes before they reached the palace gates, when Lunette cut in. "Why don't we form a mold of a ship and bake the bread around it?"

"I don't think 'bake' is the right word," Ashlar tried to lighten the mood, doing just as bad a job as Bizz trying to hide his limp.

"Yes, yes this is indeed a very fine specimen!" Leonard made sure to vocalize the exclamation mark, both to convey his excitement and in the vein hope that it would keep them quiet while he worked. They always seemed to want to continue the conversation even after they've found the solution, and alas, this time was no exception. At least he had a pretty lady to look at now, even if she was a statue.

"So, that's it? We're done right?" Ashlar was relieved, not having the experience to know any better.

"I'm afraid not. Lord Vetinari made it quite clear that he wants you to see this all the way through." It wasn't quite as clear as Drumknott remembered, but never-the-less they had no choice. He could add the addendum "and scrub my feet while you're at it" and Ashlar and Bizz would have little choice, aside from which scented soap to use.

"Come on Ash, we get to go to space!" Bizz, who was still in a foul mood as he hopped up the stairs to get there, noticeably lit up at the first mention of space.

"I don't think that'll be entirely necessary," Drumknott muttered in a low voice.

Lunette remained quiet, watching Leonard toil away at his notes. She saw him draw several odd shapes, each one resembling some type of shaved bear as best she could make out. As the number of pages grew in size, Lunette endeavored to read one. This attempt was quickly rejected by Leonard snatching the page out of her huge hand, without stopping to look away from his notes.

"Shouldn't we make sure this actually works before we try getting in some death machine?" Ashlar ventured.

"Come on, you saw how he reacted. He probably already knows exactly what to do."

"Yes," Leonard answered. "The boy's right. It would be a good idea to see if it explodes in one hundred pieces or one thousand pieces before we strap you two in."

"Three," Lunette added, largely disregarding the rest of the sentence.

Drumknott looked at the gargoyle. "You're going with them? To space?"

"So we are going to space! Excellent, Drumknott."

Drumknott, now spinning on his heel to face Bizz, was thrown off. "Uh, what I meant to say-"

"Regardless. We can test our ship as an unmanned satellite, and observe it as it leaves the atmosphere and orbits around the Disc."

"Orbit?" Ashlar asked, once again feeling out of his depth.

Leonard, sparked into life by Bizz's show of knowledge responded. "Excellent idea! Far better than setting a piece of the bread on fire and seeing what happens. I'll get started working on an... "Orbital-Flying-Over-the-Disc" machine. Yes, think of the first man-made, er, man-and-gargoyle-made device orbiting the Disc! Splendid!" Again he made sure to vocalize the exclamation mark, this time with even more emphasis. But these people just weren't able to take a hint, he realized.

"Well then, if that's that I'll be going. I haven't had a good day's sleep in ages." Bizz gave a fake yawn and stretch to make his point. He took a step towards the door and instantly remembered that he dropped a loaf of dwarf bread on his foot. His foul mood returned, and he brooded his way down the hallway.

"Wonder where he limped off to," Lunette asked.

"If that's all, we should let Mr. Leonard continue his work in peace." Leonard inwardly squealed. "We'll let you know when he's finished his work. Expect it to come sooner than you might think. Ta-ta now."

Drumknott escorted Ashlar and Lunette out of the room and down the hall into the palace waiting area, where they found their way out.

Ashlar and Lunette soon found themselves on the roof of a nearby building. Lunette dreaded to think what her father, Plinth, would say when she got back.

She looked over at Ashlar, and noticed that he had been trying, and failing, to avert his gaze from her. It was no secret that he had a crush on her, and she had to admit she had a thing for him. The thought of a gargoyle thrill seeker excited her, and she would be more than happy to travel with him.

But he was still a teenager. She was too, but it didn't take a thrill seeker to see she was the mature one.

Either way, it wasn't going to be easy for him to make the first move, if he ever would. She looked at the crack running across his face, and tried not to think about how he got it. It looked good on him, she thought.

She was just about to ask Ashlar, when he jumped in front of it.

"Do you want to go on a date?" he asked. In a shocking development even to himself, he managed to speak with relative ease. He blurted it out right before she was about to speak, but it wasn't a rushed jumble of words. He sounded cool and confident, two things he didn't know he could do.

"Yeah, I'd love to. I was just about to ask you that, actually." Lunette met Ashlar coolness with that of her own, but that was nothing new for her. She always spoke with a confident tone, and an underling harshness that Ashlar couldn't help but be attracted to.

Unfortunately, it often caught him off guard.

"Um, uh, yeah. How about that?" He giggled, as did Lunette. Once they stopped, they sat in silence, and awkward pause that neither of them were quite sure how to dig their way out of.

Finally Lunette spoke up. "So you wanna grab a pigeon, or something?"

"Yeah, that'd be great." Ashlar was glad someone broke the awkwardness. Only that didn't happen.

They traveled together, flying around the city and chasing down pigeons until they caught two, and perched on the closest ledge to eat. The ledge happened to be on top of a semaphore tower within the city, giving them a grand view. The sun was beginning to set, making the view all the better. They started talking about the space shuttle and their mission, and that soon drifted into other things like general interests. They were laughing and enjoying themselves.

But the whole time, they couldn't shake that awkward feeling that lingered with them since they left the palace.

When they finished their meal, Ashlar cleared his throat and decided to bring it up. But he couldn't speak.

"That was really fun," Lunette said, ever so slightly brushing her hand against his.

With the fear that the date was coming to an end, and the desire to keep it going no matter what, Ashlar spoke up. "Yeah, it went perfect, didn't it? Except... you know."

"Yeah, it was..." she trailed off, but it didn't need saying. There was another moment of that same awkward silence that had dominated the date before Ashlar spoke up.

"People don't have romantic dinners, sitting over the city and watching the sunset. They wait at the restaurant for over an hour before saying sod it and go out for Dibblers "sausage-inna-bun" and a night of bowling. That's the real romantic story, the ability to tell your friends and family how terribly wrong it went but the feelings you had for each other made it worth it."

"What?"

"I mean, this whole thing was fun, don't get me wrong. But it wasn't what I was expecting. Like, I didn't get to say the things I wanted to say and stuff."

Lunette was starting to get confused. "What did you want to say?"

"Well I can't say it now, the date's over."

"It is?"

"Yes. Once the girl says "I had a lovely time" or whatever, that's when it's over."

"I thought it was over after the kiss."

"Yeah but... what?"

Lunette let out a flopping fish of a laugh and said her goodbyes before flying away. Now it was Ashlar's turn to be confused, as if he wasn't already.

The date went well, too well, and now he would have to bore everyone with the story of just how well it went. His tongue didn't slip, revealing some embarrassing past memory and he didn't make a lovable fool out of himself. How was Lunette going to remember this date now? As a genuinely fun time with someone she liked?

Ashlar flew home, dejected and confused, guided home by the sound of another attempted robbery.

**Chapter 5**

"What are we doing here, Bizz?"

The next day, Bizz dragged Ashlar, and now by extension Lunette, out to a field outside the walls of Ankh-Morpork. The field was empty, but that didn't stop Ashlar feeling a certain buzz in the air.

"Today is the day. We're going to test Leonard's first satellite!" Ashlar thought he could reach out and feel the exclamation.

The world works on a set of cues, a universal timer set to go off at the best, or more often worse, possible moment by human standards. Luckily, this cue was a good moment. The usually empty field was filled with a flood of spectators. There was never a point where you could see a few people trickle in, the crowd just sort of... appeared.

Still, there was no sight of Leonard, Vetinari, or any form of rocket.

"Where'd all these people come from?" Lunette was just as confused as Ashlar, she too being dragged out of what would constitute bed for a gargoyle and taken to a field in the middle of nowhere by someone she had just met. On second thought she was questioning her decision making.

"I might have... leaked the launch plans to the press," admitted Bizz.

"Might I ask why you would do that?"

"He probably just wants his picture in the Times," Lunette interjected.

"Don't be ridiculous. I wanted those Klatchian sceeves to get a sight of this and-"

"Look, its de Word." Lunette pointed to a man in a hat who wouldn't pass as William de Word to even someone who didn't know what William de Word looked like.

"Excuse me, I better, uh, inform him of the proceeding and such."

Bizz wondered off, somehow managed to run and walk simultaneously in the throngs of people. The crowd was starting to look more and more like a county fair, complete with shouts of "get your sausage-inna-bun, 'ere".

The people of Ankh were notorious for never missing a show, and sending a satellite into space was the show of the year, even if no one knew what a satellite was, and everyone was asking one another which was space was.

"Thanks again for last night, Ash. I had lots of fun."

The suddenness of Lunette's compliment took Ashlar by surprise. He wasn't expecting to hear any more about their date and he certainly wasn't expecting to hear the word 'fun' associated with it.

"Thanks. I had fun too."

"Let's do it again sometime."

"Why don't we call this a date?" Ashlar was so taken aback by his own words, he almost didn't notice his hand grabbing Lunette's. It's not that concrete can't blush, which it can't, but that they'd both went past red and circled back to normal.

The inner-workings of the universe decided this was another cue, as the laws of fiction dictate that romantic couples can't have their first kiss until the end of the story, and chose this time to send out Leonard with his satellite.

It was this moment that Leonard strolled into the field, as the crowd of people parted before him as if he were a prophet. Although, this being Ankh-Morpork, or at least the outskirts of Ankh, the crowd managed to part towards he and the large covered wagon behind him. Everyone turned up to see the show, and they figured they were at least owed a firsthand glimpse of the machine or whatever it was.

What was the point of gathering in a field covered in cow pies if you couldn't brag to your friends and families about seeing such a machine up close and personal, after all. They just had to be sure to not let their friends and families ask what it was they were seeing, lest they had to explain.

Standing in the front of the wagon was none other than Lord Vetinari himself. He didn't scream, he didn't shout, this much was a given. Instead he managed to say "get out of the way" simply but straightening his back and placing both hands on his ornate cane.

In a show of either fear or respect, or perhaps both, half the crowd more or less meandered out of the way. But the other half were debating with themselves about why they should listen. They were, technically speaking, outside the city walls. Their collective gears were running at whatever speed they could muster, very close to giving a lukewarm response to a man you would otherwise give steaming hot or ice cold answers to.

But before one could even suggest a democratic debate, Vimes emerged from behind the wagon and drew his sword. Swords were something that were used to lukewarm responses, usually they were red and quite sticky, but Vimes' steel blade instead met only universal agreement as the crowd dispersed, going so far as to form itself into a circle around an empty patch of the field.

The wagon was pulled to the center of the clearing, and the brown cloth was ripped off in less than grandiose fashion by Leonard, as it shot up into the air and landed on top of him. There was great applause from the crowd as Vimes and the other guards took five minutes to free him from the large piece of cloth.

"Well, we're off to a good start." Bizz declared, re-emerging from the crowd.

"Shouldn't we be over there? I mean, we at least deserve some credit." Lunette realized she was the least qualified of the three to making these kinds of statements, but the first step in being a rocket scientist is acting like a rocket scientist.

"Yeah, about that," Bizz rubbed the back of his neck. "I was just having a word with Vimes, who is most assuredly not Mr. de Word and he said the Patrician didn't want us anywhere... near the launch site."

"What, we're not good enough?"

"Actually, those were his exact words."

"Oh." There was a general agreement between the three, no point in arguing with the truth, and they turned their attention to the satellite.

Two golems rumbled from the city and, rather carefully for their size, entered the center of the crowd. A fair share of the onlookers had the wild idea that the golems were more worried about avoiding the cow pies than the spectators.

The golems walked to the now uncovered wagon and removed what Ashlar could only describe as a stick, and together they plowed it into the ground. Then, they began the job of slowly removing each piece of the rocket and meticulously piecing it together. Lunette took particular pride when she saw them remove a giant thermos and start pouring a thick brown ooze into the rocket.

As the golem's finished up their work, Vetinari hopped on top of the wagon. He was careful to make it look easy enough for a man his age, but not too easy. He gave one of his classic speeches in which he seemed to say a lot while actually not saying anything at all.

Vetinari jumped off the wagon, in which someone just so happen to be cracking their knuckles next to him.

A golem held out its hand to Vetinari, revealing a box with a button. Sure enough it was big and red. Vetinari grabbed the box and thanked the golem before muttering something under his breath, and pushing the button.

A fire on the bottom of the rocket ignited, shooting out red and orange flame on the ground below. Ashlar's eyes lit up as he watched the rocket lift off the ground. The crowd errupted with cheering, clapping, hollering, and someone trying to start a "Ankh-Morpork" shout before getting slapped upside the head by everyone around him.

And then the rocket exploded.

Vimes leapt to Vetinari's defense, jumping on top of him and dragging him under the wagon. The crowd continued clapping and hollering, figuring this was part of the show. They saw Vimes jump on Vetinari and feared the worst, killing kings was in his bloodline after all, it wouldn't be much of a leap to kill a Patrician, would it?

Before anyone could get into the proper rioting mood, debris from the rocket began tumbling back to the Disc. The two golems who set up the rocket simultaneously leapt, or chugged, into action. They arched their massive frames over the crowd, and absorbed most of the red hot debris crashing into their back.

Bizz opened his eyes to see a massive slab of stone in his face. He realized from the dirt clumped up his nostrils that he was on the ground, but didn't know how he got there.

"Are you okay?" Lunette asked him, getting up. He tentatively lifted up his right leg, making sure it worked the way he remembered.

"I think so."

She tried to give him a hand up, but he declined, fearing she had already done more damage than fiery hot, jagged shrapnel falling from the sky ever could. Ashlar stood off to the side, horrified. He stood motionless as he witnessed chunks of bread fall from the sky, and Lunette pushing him aside and pouncing on Bizz like a particularly heavy panther.

"What?" she asked. Ashlar didn't even have the common curtsey to hang his mouth open.

"I was in just as much danger as he was."

"You're made out of concrete."

"I've got a crack running up my face."

"You've got a crack on your face."

"Point taken."

"Sorry Ash, I'm not really into masonry. We should go see what's going on."

They fought against the current of the crowd, everyone deciding they had their share of excitement and deciding to go home before something else blows up.

They saw Vimes helping Vetinari climb out from under the wagon, brushing himself off. Leonard was already investigating the launch pad, and some of the nearby debris that wasn't currently lodged in the backs of the golems.

"I imagine you've been waiting to do that for quite some time, Commander." The Patrician grabbed his cane and tapped it on the ground.

"I'm not sure what you mean by that, sir. I was just doing my job."

"Of course you were, Commander. Why don't you go help peel, what appears to be Dwarf Bread off the backs of my assistances?"

"Yes sir!" The Commander clicked his heels and gave as smart a salute as you can to the man you just tackled and flung under a wagon and went away to fetch an expert on Dwarf Bread.

Bizz whistled and kicked a piece of the burned bread. He let out a weak scream, more of a half-hearted sigh and slowly grabbed his foot, balancing with the other. Ashlar grabbed him before he had a chance to fall over.

Lunette picked up a chunk of blackened metal and held it up to the sun. She turned it around in her hand, and she couldn't help but feel it resembled a...

Leonard looked up from his particularly interesting burned blade of grass, and instantly recognized the piece of metal Lunette was staring at. He ran over and snatched it out of her hand.

"Yes, yes, this would explain it."

"What would?" Lunette asked. Ashlar let go of Bizz, who was still holding his foot like a better version of Ashlar and Lunette.

"It all makes sense now! And here I was thinking that the gravitational pull of the Great A'tuin somehow interfered."

"Mr. Leonard, do you mind explaining what the hell you're talking about?"

"But it's right here, dearie! Don't you see? Someone planted a bomb on the rocket!"

"Well you gotta admit, it's really well written," Bizz said.

"It's an exact quote," Lunette countered.

"Then it's well spoken."

They were gathered around that morning's edition of the Times. The previous day's explosion wasn't even on the front page, instead pushed to the back in favor of the weather and a development in Klatch.

"We would like to humbly give our apologies to the Ankh-Morpork for their failed test flight yesterday," Ashlar read.

"See, he's humbly sorry."

"I would also like to point out that when I spoke to Mr. Vetinari about the possibility of our two countries working together, he refused. I told him that, with all due respect of course, that the Klatchian space program was already years ahead of Ankh-Morpork's feeble attempts. I believe it was this rush to in some way beat us that caused such a tragic event." Ashlar looked over the paper to Bizz.

"Well, he did sound awfully respectful."

"Will you stop it?" Lunette shouted. She grabbed the paper and started reading to herself. "An onion, of all bloody things."

"What else would they have sent," asked Ashlar. "A dog?"

"That would have been awfully cruel, wouldn't it?"

Lunette stopped short of finishing the article and threw it over the roof of the bank.

After Leonard discovering it was a bomb that destroyed the satellite, it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out who did it. Ignoring the possibility of a coincidence, everyone started thinking of ways to beat Klatch. Everyone except Ashlar, who was more interested in he and Lunette's quickly developing relationship.

Who would have thought getting a date was as simple as asking?

"It really doesn't matter, does it?" Bizz walked to the edge of the roof, and looked down at the people of Ankh quickly trying to withdraw money. "Okay so they beat us to space, admittedly a pretty bad start, but so what?"

"They had cameras on board."

"I believe the quote was 'The A'Tuin was blue, but there were no gods, except Anoia who said hello.' "

"And the onion looks as if it'd make a great soup." Ashlar added.

"So they confirmed what we already knew."

"I'm pretty sure a lot of religious folk would disagree." Lunette looked down at the bank, and counted the number of 'the end is nigh' signs.

"What I mean is that simply getting into space isn't the end." Bizz pointed to the moon, barely visible in the daytime sky.

Ashlar and Lunette looked up, and saw their future staring at them. A smile broke out across Lunette's face, and she looked to Ashlar. Ashlar saw it too, and smiled, looking into Lunette's eyes.


End file.
